Inheritance
by ruth baulding
Summary: Mace Windu decides to bond with the younger generation; the younger generation struggles to establish rapport; and trouble is waiting for them all, just a short hyperspace jump away.
1. Chapter 1

**Inheritance**

* * *

1.

_Wizard._

This place is better than _anywhere_ I've seen – even Watto never got stuff like this, even when that big Federation ship crashed in the Dune Sea and we beat the Jawas to the scavenging site. I mean, on Tatooine you had to scrape and scrounge to find decent junk; _here,_ I'm up to my waist in the castoffs, things people have thrown away as trash. The compacting walls are only activated every other day, that's what the droid in the magrail train said, so I figure today's an off day. This is _rugged_. There's about a million different droid components and a bunch of stuff I don't even know the name for. And I know pretty much everything there is to know about cybernetics and astromechanics. Mom always said I could fix anything, and it's true.

And everybody just seems to be taking what they want – that fat guy on the docking platform called it the Dumps, but maybe it should be called the Treasure Trove. There was a cantina in Mos Eisley called that. The guy that owned it was really nice, too, until some bounty hunter sleemos from Anchorhead got in a brawl and accidentally killed him with their blasters. Anyway, it's like everything here is free for the taking. And the 'cycling droids are scooping up bits and pieces into their hover bins, so really what would it matter of I just picked up a couple things that might be interesting later on? You know, just for fun.

Too bad this converter diode won't fit inside my tunic or a belt pouch. I wish I could have brought a satchel or something. These Jedi clothes are kind of annoying that way- you can't carry around a lot of stuff. Master Obi-Wan says it's an _impediment_ to anyone trying to neglect the rule about possession, but I think it's just kind of dumb. 'Cause sometimes possessions can come in handy. Master says there is a line between possession and neurotic hoarding, and I've not only crossed it but left it a parsec behind. He says a lot of stuff like that, with his voice all flat so you can't tell if he's mad or not… but he hasn't made me clean up my room yet, so I guess that's all that really matters.

I think I'll keep this coil transceiver, and these little universal binary plugs.

There's seriously _nothing_ in Master's room. I mean nothing. Not even a holo or a decoration or something. I guess he must have taken a vow of - what do you call it?- chastity or something. It's like nobody lives there at all. It kind of reminds me of the way the Tuskens drag a cloth in the sand behind their scouts, to wipe out their tracks. They can cross the desert at night, and you would never know anybody was there, 'cause they leave no footprints. I wonder who Obi-Wan thinks is trying to follow him?

His own memories, or something, I guess. People are weird.

But Mom says that everybody should be appreciated for themselves, not for what we want out of them. I mean, she used to say that. Before. I really miss her still, even though I'm not supposed to. I don't just _appreciate_ her. I love her. And someday, I'm gonna go back and free her and all the other slaves. 'Cause I promised. And I bet I can even get Master to help me do it, if I'm really good and all and do all the right Jedi stuff first.

'Course, I'm not exactly, technically being good right now – I mean, I'm supposed to be on the Legislative District tour with the other initiates, but that is so _boring._ When I came to Coruscant the first time, and got to stay with Padme and all the handmaidens, I saw everything, and they let me go everywhere. So I've been there, done that. This is way better any day, and I'll figure out how to get back to the Temple before evening meal, so nobody gets their knickers in a twist. I mean, I used to go out _all night_ past Mos Eisley's outskirts on collecting trips for Watto. And these Jedi kids can't even take a field trip without about a million chaperones. It's kind of annoying how sheltered they all are.

Uh-oh. That guy in the uniform looks like business and he's pointing to me like he wants to talk. Maybe all these spare parts aren't up for grabs after all, but then again, he doesn't seem mad. More like worried or something. I better tell him it's okay. Prob'ly when he figures out I'm a Jedi he'll just leave me alone. Master says "the Order commands a great deal of respect in the Republic's coreworlds", so that should count for something, right? Here comes that policeman or whoever he is. I'll just shove this piece of microwire in my pocket and tell him straight up that I don't' need any help.


	2. Chapter 2

**Inheritance**

* * *

2.

"Yes, the Misplaced Persons Office of the Subdistrict Constabulary."

I should have added, _Subdepartment for the Deliberately and Habitually Lost, Special Division for AWOL Jedi Padawans_. I do hope there aren't any tiresome forms to be filled out; I would rather this particular repeating nightmare not be kept on record. The boy likes any kind of game that involves keeping score .. and on this vexing account, I fear I must admit to _not winning at the moment._

If he gets himself misplaced one more time, I shall be tempted to leave him in such dire straits permanently. It might save time and trouble in the long run.

Thankfully, the air-gondola pilot knows precisely where this obscure department of the local planetary police is located. One good reason for using a conventional means of transport, rather than a private Temple air-car. Another good reason would be the need for discretion. After all, I –better than most – know to what extremity of fervor gossip can reach, even within its hallowed walls. One can return home from a mission to find oneself transformed overnight into a scoundrel who exchanged acrimonious words with his own master, an object of pity who has been cruelly cast away and then orphaned, or –even worse- an instant celebrity, a legendary "Sith Killer." There is no limit to the dark transmutations of fact wrought by certain Padawans' overactive imaginations. There is no limit to how many speculative questions can be raised in the minds of so many bright-eyed and prurient observers. And a vehicle cannot be checked out from the transport pool without certain questions being answered.

The boy is going to be the death of me. Well, unless _I_ am the death of him, first, of course. Were I a gambling man, like my former master, I should say that the odds presently stand evenly weighted in favor of either eventuality. I leave the final disposition of the question to the Will of the Force; but it is an established certainty, at this point in time, that neither of us shall obtain to a ripe old age so long as we are shackled together by mutual obligation.

I didn't want a Padawan. Not yet. Six months ago, I was headstrong and had much to learn. I was capable, at best. Now somebody calls me _master. _And not just somebody…. No. The Chosen One, if the prophecy is to be believed. I am responsible for the safe delivery of the Force's redemptive promise.

An intimidating burden, placed on willing but completely unworthy shoulders. And the Force's Chosen instrument of balance is not _helping_ matters along any, either.

Now, as we draw nigh to the place where the kind officer of the peace has stowed my truant apprentice, after discovering him cavorting, unsupervised, in a scrap pile outside the Legislative district, I must once again decide what in the blazes I am supposed to _do_ with this boy. What would Qui Gon have done? Stars' end, how would I know? Certainly _I_ never put my own mentor through such a trial. Nor would I _ever_ have dared such blatant disregard for the rules and expectations laid down from time immemorial for the conduct of younglings in the Order. That business at the annual Starside Expo with Garen and Reeft all those years ago doesn't…. doesn't count.

"Shall I wait, sir?"

"Oh…yes. Thank you." My pilot looks as though he hopes Jedi tip well. I suppose we do. Certainly I will; the Code does not forbid us to buy discretion at the current market value.

The policeman who found Anakin earlier is swelling with the pride of accomplishment. It is not every day a member of his profession is able to one-up the Order, and in person, no less. He hitches his thumbs through his belt and rocks back and forth on his heels, superciliously. "You lost something, Master Jedi?"

Ha ha. Gloat while you can, my friend; and be thankful you will not witness a Jedi losing his _temper._ "I appear rather to have found something," I retort, as Anakin peeps out from the confines of the Waiting Area, so designated by a dingy plastoid sign on the wall.

"Master!" he chirps. He hasn't the sense to feign contrition, or even regret. He has much to learn.

"Found him hanging out in the Dumps earlier – lucky the compactors weren't scheduled to run today – grisly way to go. Saved his life, I'd like to think."

Behind the man, Anakin rolls his eyes, eloquently refuting this assessment of his previous danger, and of his incompetence to save himself from ordinary peril. "He may _live_ to wish you hadn't," I address the boy. So help me, Anakin, this is _not_ happening again.

Our new acquaintance is shoving a datapad beneath my nose; his murmured explanations regarding the various scrolling forms requiring my attention and thumbprint go barely noticed. My Padawan is filthy – covered in splotches of oil, or grease, and distinctly disheveled. Even his tiny learner's braid is looking a bit frayed and tattered.

"You don't need to document this incident," I suggest, mildly, handing the data pad back.

"Ah, well, I don't really need to document this incident," the fellow obligingly agrees, bestowing an indulgent smile upon the boy standing behind him. "Off you go, young scamp."

"Wizard, Master! Did you just-"

"_This _ way, Anakin. Good day, and thank you." A short bow to the somewhat befuddled officer and I am chivvying my wretched apprentice back into the air taxi. I slip the driver a sizeable credit chit – shiny and new, somewhat less battered and jaded than my expectations regarding the joys of _teaching-_ and push Anakin back into his seat when he tries to lean over the outside panel.

He doesn't even apologize.

There is no emotion. There is peace. "Anakin. You left the scheduled field trip and its chaperones without permission, and engrossed yourself in a _garbage_ heap. Would you care to explain that egregious violation of both the accepted rules and my direct order?"

He merely shrugs, his nose wrinkling in a peculiar mannerism of his own. "I tried to go with the other kids, really. At first. And I even paid attention and everything like you said. But the Legislative District tour is so boring, master! You said so yourself! And Master Muln told me how you and he –"

Thankfully, he possesses a sufficient glimmer of prudence, or survival instinct, to stop before he actually blurts out the entire tale in front of the taxi pilot, whose perked aural tubes widely broadcast his desire to _hear_ said rumor. The story is not nearly so amusing as Garen seems to think, and I shall personally see to it that _Master Muln_ exercises better custody of his tongue in the future. We had planned to spar later today, anyhow. And that is a cheering prospect.

Anakin smiles tentatively, mistakenly interpreting my resolution to thrash Garen as forgiveness of his own malfeasance. "It's just a garbage heap, master…. Nothing to get upset about."

Oh really? "Believe me, Anakin, you have yet to truly understand what being _down in the Dumps_ means," I promise.


	3. Chapter 3

**Inheritance**

* * *

3.

Here he comes, and without his Padawan, I see. No surprise there; Kenobi is nothing if not intelligent, and he has doubtless sensed in the Force – or simply made the rational inference- that this meeting concerns the boy's recent lapse of conduct. I spare Yoda a sideways glance, but the old master is intent upon the newcomer, his eyes hooded in that special way that heralds a thorough grilling ahead. I wince on Kenobi's behalf.

It was not _fair_ of Qui-Gon to burden the young man with this; but what could the Council say, when all was said and done? Skywalker proved himself a prodigy that day, dangerous whether or not he was trained; and Kenobi proved himself a prodigy as well, though he will never admit it and does not seem to realize it in the slightest. What the Force brings together so dramatically, we cannot sunder – not even out of pity for the one so burdened. The Council will not contend with the clearly revealed will of that which indwells us all.

Kenobi bows and takes a quick, assessing look at all our faces, confirming his suspicion that this special session is disciplinary in nature. I can see the certainty settle in – his mouth thins into an expressive determination, and that soft line appears between his brows. He's let his hair grow out since being Knighted – why all the young members of the Order do this upon reaching full rank, I will never understand. In this case, it gives the wearer a slightly rakish appearance which does nothing to recommend leniency.

Still, a part of me must admit that the debacle is only _technically_ his fault. The Skywalker boy is a walking, talking disaster. We might as well be asking his master to contain a seismic event or turn aside a class three ion storm.

"Know do you, why summoned before the Council you are?' Yoda asks, skipping the preliminaries.

Kenobi has _wariness_ stamped all over his youthful features, and only a keen observer would notice the slight twitch of one eyebrow, that barely contained insouciance threatening to overturn his construct of deferent calm. "I do not presume to know, master, but I have a fair notion, yes."

The ancient one shimmies backward in his chair, grunting. "Fair notion, say you. Explain."

I steeple my fingers. One thing I will grant readily: if anything outdoes Qui Gon's bygone antics in this chamber, it is those of his former Padawan. In this case, the student has far exceeded the master, for while the old rebel used to habitually drive the Council to distraction, and occasional outrage, his protégé could charm a gundark out of its meal and leave the thing purring. I can sense that Masters Mundi and Piell are already amused; they lounge at ease in their seats, anticipating a pleasant diversion. Their vote will be of no disciplinary value. I sigh.

Kenobi catches my eye, ever attentive to audience. I scowl back at him, but he doesn't bat an eyelash. That's a sign of good training, but I know better than to believe the ruse. He addresses himself to Yoda, whose face is wrinkled into a mass of dubious lines, nose crunched in vexation, clawed hands resting atop his stick.

"I imagine that the Council wishes a report on my Padawan's progress. There was a small incident, yesterday, which has been turned to proper benefit of the Temple community."

"You refer to the discovery of your Padawan in a refuse diposal site yesterday, without proper chaperonage?" Ki Adi prompts, eager to hear what defense will be employed to deflect criticism away from the impetuous Skywalker boy. This has grown into a kind of game over the last months; one which must soon come to an end.

Kenobi has the good grace to blush a little, but he doesn't break stride. As a side thought, I note that it might be a good idea to send him to the annual Chandrilan unity convention instead of Master Unduli; the Chandrilan planetary leadership is exclusively humanoid female, and notoriously fractious. It may be time to apply some underhanded diplomatic tactics, and by that I mean that Obi -Wan here might not have to open his mouth to make headway – or at least, it won't matter what he says. I stow this idea away for later consideration.

"…there _was_ no incident, master, at least if you ask the constabulary or the local transport services," Kenobi almost smirks.

It's a pleasing sales pitch, but Yoda is not in a buying mood today. "Abuse of power, to save Order embarrassment," he snaps. "Use mind trick on common citizenry you will not, again."

_Ouch_. I press my fingers to my lips, smoothing away any trace of amusement. Kenobi's face blanches just a little, but he holds his defensive position a bit longer. "Yes, master… I will find some other way of ensuring that Anakin's indiscretion does not extend beyond these walls."

"You might consider containing _him_ within these walls for a start," I suggest, infusing the words with a bit of acid. Sorry, young one, but we have a tradition, and it holds that _the Padawan's commission is the master's omission._

That earns me a meek "Yes, Master Windu." In the ensuing awkward silence, I have an opportunity to observe how much progress we've made since the first meeting of this nature, no more than a fortnight into Skywalker's apprenticeship. And with a pang of concern, I note that there has been almost none; we've brought this up time and again, all but publicly censured Kenobi for the boy's undisciplined hijinks, and yet neither the frequency of the Padawan's offenses nor the master's frustration have abated. We are, it would seem, at an impasse, a stand off in which the limits of precedent have grown alarmingly blatant.

Something will have to be done. For both their sakes.

"He is polishing the initiate level dojo floors by hand, over the course of this week," Kenobi explains. "So his actions have been turned to a dual benefit – the work needed to be done and his peers have a clear example by way of deterrent."

Yoda snorts out his contemptuous dismissal of this rhetorical trick. "Deterrent, hm? Perhaps needed such a thing, _you_ do.. Indulgent the Council has been so far, Obi-Wan. But perhaps a stricter approach required is?"

And the look on Kenobi's face at this moment is unaccountably alarming. He just nods, miserably, all the fight seemingly knocked out of him. "Yes, Master Yoda."

I stir, but the old master waves my objection aside. He favors the young Jedi with a singularly piercing expression and raps his stick against his seat. "Stop him from doing this again, you must. Another such incident – tolerated it will _not_ be. Your responsibility is this boy. Remind you of that , I need not, hm?"

"No, master. I understand. It won't happen again."

Twelve and a half years, Qui Gon had this man as his apprentice. Twelve and a half years, and nothing- _nothing - _ that old gundark could do would quash his Padawan's spirit. And now a street urchin from Tatooine has managed the impossible in a matter of months? Something is not right here – I sense a disturbance.

But this is not the time or place to raise such doubts. And besides, Yoda has already dismissed Kenobi, sending him on his way without a word of encouragement. They say I am the stern one, the intimidating face of authority. But I beg to differ. I don't like what I just witnessed, and Yoda knows it. His green eyes, half-hooded, slide sideways to regard me with a knowing light.

We will discuss it later. For now, other business awaits. But I won't forget. And I will take the matter into my own hands, if need be. For the Order's sake, for Qui Gon's sake… for my own sake.

And Force forgive me if I mull on this during the entire remainder of the long Council session.


	4. Chapter 4

**Inheritance**

* * *

4.

I hate it here. I hate all the other kids. I don't want to be with them in their stupid clan dormitory. They don't like me, and they don't understand me. They just stare and whisper and look at me like I'm poodoo. That's why I live here now, in Master's quarters, instead of down there where I supposedly belong. I don't know where Master Obi-Wan is right now, but being here is better than being there. I think somebody came looking for me a minute ago, but I've figured out how to lock the door from the inside and jam it, so they had to go away. Maybe they know I'm hiding in here – they can tell a lot of stuff just with their minds, without seeing it. That's part of what I don't like. On Tatooine, I was the one who could see things before they happened and tell if folks were lying or cheating. Here, it's the other way around. Everybody is looking through you all the time, like you're made of transparisteel or something. Master says he will teach me how to _shield- _that means, make your mind so other Jedi can't shove their nose in your business. I think Master is pretty good at that – I mean, I can practically never tell what he's thinking, and I figure he's been practicing since he was like a baby or something.

It's kind of weird to think about, but Master Obi-Wan prob'ly doesn't even remember his mother. I hope she was nice, even though she gave him away and all.

I miss my mom. I want to go home. I hate it here.

And here comes Master now – I can feel him before he even opens the door. It's easy, really. I can't really explain, but he kind of shines. So then I open the door, 'cause I jammed it pretty good, and he comes into the room all in hurry, not even looking surprised to see me there. But he never looks surprised. Last month, when we got sent to that boring summit on Whatsit Minor, and there was those angry protesters in the spaceport and that guy with the big blaster just _went crazy_ right in front of us, Master didn't even blink. That guy's arm was on the floor before _he_ could even blink. And afterward, Obi-Wan just put his lightsaber away and watched the policemen come and then he told me to keep walking, we were going to be late for our transport and that would be rude.

And when I asked why that man was so insanely angry, he just said he would explain it later, like the whole thing was boring. So I guess being a Jedi means nothing really shocks you anymore, or makes you sad.

Master looks kind of sad right now, though. Mom used to hold me when she was feeling sad, and then she would brighten up again. I wish maybe Obi-Wan would do that but I think its against the Code because he doesn't make a move or anything. He just runs a hand through his hair – it's all floppy now, much longer than when I first met him, and he looks at me with one of those expressions I can't make out, and he says, "Anakin."

"Why are you upset, Master?" I ask. "It's 'cause of what happened yesterday, isn't it?"

He just walks across the room and tosses his cloak through his open bedroom door, which is pretty wizard 'cause he just sorta backhanded it without looking and it landed on the sleep mattress all perfectly, and also because Master Obi-Wan is never sloppy or rude and never throws anything. It's funny to see him act this way, but also a bit scary. And then he sits down on a meditation cushion, folding his legs up criss-cross like they taught us to do the other day – I mean, when I had to go to the _little kid_ class that I really hated – and closes his eyes.

See? Mom always gave hugs, but Obi-Wan just meditates. Frustrated? Meditate. Hurt feelings? Meditate. Confused? Meditate. Tired? Meditate. Lonely? Meditate. Bored? Meditate. It s a big load of bantha poodoo if you ask me, 'cause Mom had a better solution and she wasn't even a Jedi, but he says Master Qui-Gon used to do the same thing, and that I should too, so I guess it's all right. I mean, it prob'ly doesn't do any harm but it would be easier if he would just _talk_ about what's bothering him.

So after a while when I can't wait any longer I just blurt it out. "What's wrong, master? Am I in more trouble with the Council?"

He takes this really big, deep breath and opens his eyes. "No, Anakin. You answer to me; and we have already discussed your mistake. It's in the past. If anyone is, ah, _in trouble_ with the Council, it is myself."

What? That is absolute _boshuda_. "They busted _you_ for what _I_ did?" I can't believe how unfair that is. It's like something Watto would think up. Jedi are _way _better than that.

Master's eyes go sideways. When he's thinking a lot of stuff in his head that he doesn't think is proper to say aloud, he does that. I can always tell when he's just saying the polite thing on the outside, because his eyes will always shift focus like that, and then come back to you after he's had this private snark on the inside. I wish he would just get it over and be mad, but I guess Jedi don't do that, 'cause actually I've never seen him really throw a fit. "That is not your concern," he tells me.

"They did! How can they _do_ that?"

Now his eyes get all narrow, which means I better shut up pretty soon. "It is my responsibility to teach you, Anakin. If you do not _learn, _does that not indicate some deficiency on my part?"

Oh, boy. There is _no way_ I am answering that one. "Sorry," I say, wondering if maybe I should go away. My feet start to fidget around even though I'm not supposed to do that. "Sorry."

I guess I'll just go to bed. I can tell Master Obi-Wan is _hurt,_ but he doesn't believe in the simple things that Mom did, so there's nothing I can do to make it better. Everything is complicated with him. With the Temple. And I guess that means everything is gonna be complicated for me now, too.

And I'm not crying here in my bed either. It just looks that way, but it's not true. Because Jedi don't do that, right? And I'm a Jedi now.


	5. Chapter 5

**Inheritance**

* * *

**5.**

There are times when the pressures of the present moment outweigh the burden of the past and the nebulous threats of the future, when the Force burns with such singular clarity that doubt and longing are reduced to ephemeral ash, and even the impossible promise seems easy to fulfill, illumined from within by overwhelming Light.

Such times come rarely for me any more, even deep in meditation, and more often than not they come in the dojo. Since Naboo.

I don't know why.

But this is one of those times. Seven remote training droids, stun cannon set on highest power, all inhibiting programs disabled, are no match for the Force. This blade is not mine; it is the blade of the heart, a 'saber wielded by Light. It was once my master's weapon, and as he is now one with the Force itself, this blade now sings in unison with the universal energy. It is a weapon which vanquished a deadly foe, and saved the vanquisher from a far worse fate than mere death; its emerald fire is purer by far than the heart of he who bears it now, the Force itself wielding the hand that wields the blade.

The droids attack simultaneously. I cannot think what would happen should even _two_ stun bolts find their target, but I do not need to think of it. The Force is armor and shield, liquid blazing fire, a perfect defensive sphere repelling all assault. At the center of this furious storm resides absolute peace, utter stillness, the fulcrum of existence. Without: passion, violence, chaos. Within: serenity, wisdom, harmony. There is no motion, no opposition, no danger. There is only the Force.

This is Soresu. In this storm's eye, I can rest in the present moment.

Qui Gon did not live to see it, to see his admonition obeyed, his teachings realized. I pray that somehow, within the Force, his spirit can know that he did not fail, that he was a good master, a wise man, a great Jedi, and that his last and unworthy student did at last learn this one simple lesson at his feet. There is only the present moment and that which indwells it.

The droids fall, clattering like hailstones to the floor as their own disarming shots are rebounded into them. They crash, they roll, they spin and bounce off the walls. The assault ceases; the storm ceases; and I am alone, blood thrumming in my veins in chorus with the blade's deep and resonating growl, self and Light now two things, luminous spirit and gross matter congealed into an uneasy alliance, the very air in my lungs sharp and sweet with the scent of ozone, of scorched plastoid. Destruction lies at my feet, but it has not touched my heart.

Not like it did on Naboo.

This is balance, and if I could but cling to this moment, to the insight of this precious and already fleeting present, then surely I could keep my word and fulfill my promise. I have sworn to train the Chosen One; I have given my oath that I will show this child how to bring balance to the Force. And one cannot teach that which one does not understand oneself. I have much to learn – an infinity of yet-undiscovered truths, a terrifying abyss of wisdom to encompass. If not for the Light, I would cower in the face of it. But here, now, there can be no doubt. There is only the Force.

And yet, the certainty fades, for it was never mine to begin with. It was the Force's, and lent to me for only the briefest of time. It would be folly to think that even this seeming apotheosis could last. It is forbidden to grasp, to be _attached,_ to anything, even those gifts the Force bestows.

Qui Gon's blade disappears, just as his spirit did, back upon the brink of hell, in Naboo.

And now, my mind unfurling from the Light's obliterating embrace, I am once again aware of here and there, and when and where, and the fact that this practice session was observed, by an unexpected guest. I bow, because Mace Windu is a Jedi Master, and a peerless swordsman, and a Councilor.

He is not here to discuss Anakin. I can sense this much. But this leaves me wondering why he _is _here. For I can feel his regard settle upon me as solemnly as Qui Gon's hand used to settle upon my shoulder, the one no longer brushed by a learner's braid.

"What have you named that saber form?" he asks.

I blink; admittedly, not the most articulate response. But Master _Windu_ of all people should be familiar with the traditional disciplines, and he does not often speak in riddles.

"It is Soresu, master." What reply besides the bare truth does he expect? Have I transgressed, again, without being aware of it? Was there something _Dark_ in my actions, some hidden seed of corruption unperceived by me but lurking still, apparent to the keen observer?

"That was not Soresu, son."

Humiliation is a gift from the Force, as much as anything else. I let this one sink in. "I am still learning…I used to practice Ataru, master, before… recent events. I have just applied myself to this new form. I would welcome any correction."

"You misunderstand," he says, in his resonant voice. A smile lights his eyes and then disappears again, veiled by the depths of his gaze. "That was not pure Soresu. That was a new variant, one I've not seen before."

"I – it is merely Soresu, master."

He does not agree; and yet he does not press the argument. "Obi-Wan. Would you walk with me in the gardens for a while? There is something I wish to discuss with you."

Oh, Force. But of course one does not simply _decline_ such an invitation, any more than would refuse Master Yoda's offer of tea. It is unthinkable- and better to face whatever lies ahead than to defer its unpleasant revelations to a later date. I bow. "Of course."

He nods, and I retreat to the shower rooms, without the faintest notion what this is all about. Because, apparently, Anakin is not the only one in my life bent on catching me off guard at every available opportunity.


	6. Chapter 6

**Inheritance**

* * *

**6.**

We choose the Room of a Thousand Fountains. Given my druthers, it would be the ordered geometry of the outside gardens, not the unbridled riot of the arboretum. But the industrial sectors of the City have a scheduled burn tonight – the ashes of their waste and debris settling like a pall over everything in a hundred-kilometer radius, and carried even further by the diurnal winds. Don't' let anyone tell you Coruscant is beautiful; the glitter and pomp seen from orbit is tawdry make-up applied on a syphilitic face.

Except the Temple. We have kept the heart of the galaxy pure, or pure enough. For now. And while I live, it will not succumb to the mantle of the Dark, the clinging grit that settles in nooks and crannies, and accumulates in to a hard enamel of indifference and compromise.

The Jedi Order will not come to that. Unlike the Senate.

Obi-Wan is an easy man with whom to walk in silence. He makes no demands, and his own self-sufficient quietude would be a balm to any restless spirit. We could likely enough traverse these well-worn paths several times over before either of us broke the wordless peace; but I know that the first breach will have to be of my making, for I have seniority and he won't act contrary to protocol so soon again.

Not after telling Yoda that he would train the Skywallker boy _without the Council's approval, if he must._ I heard about that. We all did. Yoda was the only one who found it in any degree amusing, but there is not a soul living who can truly fathom the ancient one's sense of humor. After all these years, I can predict it; but understanding remains elusive. I sometimes thinks he laughs when the Force laughs. It takes eight and a half centuries to be able to know when the cosmic joke is being played upon one's self.

My companion stirs when we reach the yarbanna grotto, with its dappled roof of red-gold leaves. "Master Windu," he says – against all expectation – "What was it you wished to discuss? I am at your disposal, of course… but , if you will forgive me, I am loathe to leave my Padawan unattended for extended periods of time."

I would wager he isn't. And that is part and parcel of the difficulty. A master should not be tethered so closely to his fractious young charge; Anakin is far too young to be apprenticed, and far too old to be inducted into the ranks of initiates. The Council decided against his acceptance into the Order; and then, in the wake of his astounding feats on Naboo, we decided to remand our own careful deliberations – on one condition. By permitting Kenobi to take on the boy's training, we relieved ourselves and the clan-masters of the primary burden of making the impossible possible. We thrust an unprecedented burden onto the only shoulders willing to bear it.

That wasn't wise. I see that now.

"I've been watching you the last six months," I tell him. Another man might be less forthright. I am not another man.

He stiffens.

"I think you've earned a bit of leave. The negotiations on Rallax were grueling, I have no doubt." I know the place and its obstreperous Committee for Public Safety well. Too well. That was another assignment delegated, by unspoken mutual consent, to whomever was most capable and possessed the least seniority: Obi-Wan again. I'm told the obnoxious Rallaxi Overseer actually expressed his _gratitude_ and _admiration_ to the Supreme Chancellor. "You're the first diplomat he's taken a liking to in twenty years. We all wonder how you managed it."

One eyebrow lifts upward. "I drank him under the table. After that, the negotiations were considerably easier."

I know better than to believe that bit of nonsense, but I also know that Kenobi deploys humor like a smokescreen, and this self-deprecating tale is a way to avoid congratulation. I wonder if his allergy to praise stems from a belief that he does not deserve it; that his perceived failures outweigh any good he might have accomplished, thus rendering the latter null and void. I'm sure Qui-Gon could have answered that query, but he is with the Force.

"I've also applied for a short respite from duty. I was wondering if you would accompany me on a trip to Outer Gola."

He takes this proposition in stride, at least outwardly. But it is nearly thirty seconds before he speaks, so I know that caught him off guard.

"Outer Gola…? To visit the Feorian Cultural Reservation?" he inquires, neatly divining the motive for such a visit. He was involved in the mission which originally saved the last remnant of the Feorian race from slavery – years ago now. The whole debacle was of that scoundrel Jinn's making; but it turned out well in the end, and did some good. It is natural for those of us who were instrumental in liberating this unique people to wish to see their progress toward true freedom. Sadly, merely casting off physical shackles is seldom enough to free the heart. Not after so many generations.

"Yes."

"I would be honored, master…but, my Padawan-"

"According to you, he can't be left behind. So he won't be," I sigh. Besides, my ulterior motive for this journey is one which demands the boy's presence, as troublesome as he might be. "Unless you have some objection."

Obi-Wan falls silent again. We round a bend in the path, and set off down a new branch in the meandering footways. "He may struggle a bit with their history," he admits. "Slavery still has great emotional resonance for him."

He sounds apologetic. Neither I, nor any of the Council, expects the boy to eradicate the memory of his past; to accept is not the same as to forget, to suppress. Clearly there has been a degree of misunderstanding cultivated here. I sigh – another unwitting scar left by inexperience on one hand, and a communal silence on the other.

"Then it will be a good learning experience for him," I say.

"Of course, master." Nobody else could suffuse gracious deference with so much doubt and irony. And yet I take no offense. He's quite right. We will simply have to deal with the storms and squalls as they come. And I quite frankly want to observe the fallout; I have a feeling that a more seasoned perspective might ease their shared path.

This should have been Qui-Gon's role. But I was – am – his friend. I will have to suffice.


	7. Chapter 7

**Inheritance**

* * *

**7.**

So now it's like the middle of the night, and Master is waking me up already. It's not as nice as when Mom used to get me up before dawn – she used to kiss me and stuff, even though I was too old – but it's still nice, not like Watto finding me asleep behind the shop counter. He used to fly off the handle and try to hit me, 'cept I was mostly _way_ too fast for him. Master Obi-Wan hasn't hit me even once yet. So maybe I'm being really exceptionally good. Or I guess maybe Jedi just don't do stuff like that. That's prob'ly what it is. Jedi don't use violence.

But they do kill people. Bad people, I mean.

"Anakin, for stars' sake, your tunics are filthy. Put on your spare set and meet me in _three_ minutes."

"Um… the other ones are kinda dirty too. Are we going somewhere fancy?"

Master puts a hand in his hair and runs it backward, making the top of it stick up _completely _ straight like a krayt lizard's fringe when it's mad. But he doesn't feel mad. Just sorta frustrated. He tosses the not-quite-so-dirty clothes at me and stuffs the really dirty ones into the laundry chute.

"Sorry," I mutter. He makes me feel squishy on the inside when he gets that expression. It's like a mixture of Mom being disappointed and something way, way worse, like yesterday when he came home after the Council meeting and he actually _threw_ his cloak. "Sorry," I say again.

The thing is, we _never_ washed our clothes back home. Sometimes we could sprinkle some deodorizing powder on them or something, or if a new owner bought you then maybe you got some new pieces to wear, but it's not something I think about. And then the laundry chute is kinda weird. I mean, how do they keep track of whose clothes are whose? Especially 'cause pretty much everyone here wears the same thing. On Tatooine, if you owned something, it stayed on your body. Leaving your stuff lying around was like asking for a thief to come 'round. And we _definitely _ did not have laundry chute things or droids to do all the cleaning.

Master sighs very softly and jerks his head toward the common room. "The discussion can wait," he says, and I can tell he means it. Clothes aren't _that_ important. "We aren't going anywhere _fancy,_ at least by Coreworld standards."

"We're leaving planet?" I ask. Yippeeee! A trip! "Where're we going, master? Naboo?"

Ooops. Wrong thing to say. "Outer Gola," he answers, all tight and short. No more questions – I have to get dressed and pack a few things … you know, something to pass the time. Space travel is really boring and if I fidget or anything then Master will make me meditate and there is _no way_ I can do that when we are on our way to somewhere new. I 'm gonna be the first person to see every single star system, so this Gola place is just getting added to my list.

And, for the record, I am out the door and ready to go in _less_ than three minutes. Master's eyebrows go up like he's impressed and I give him a great big smile. I can do some of this Jedi stuff right, after all. Then he's dropping my cloak over my shoulders. It's dark brown and a tiny bit too long but Master says I'll grow into it soon and I can't go running down the Temple corridors like an uncouth savage if I'm in danger of tripping over the hem.

What's wrong with running? It gets you where you're going _faster._

"Do I have to wear it?" I ask. I mean, couldn't I just stuff it in my bag in case it gets cold? I feel silly with this big heavy thing hanging down off me all over the place, and the hood is like a zillion times too big and all. And my hands get lost in the sleeves.

"A cloak covers a multitude of sins," Obi-Wan says, with his voice all flat that way he always does. He shoves his hands into opposite sleeves and bam! He pretty much looks like the perfect Jedi, all stern and wise and kind of scary like he might kill some bad people any second now. I mean, Master _did_ do that, to that assassin on Naboo, so it's not like he's pretending, and that makes him kinda scary if you think about it too much. Not that _I'm_ scared. And anyway, his eyes are twinkling too much to be really scary.

Hey. I think he's _joking_, at least a little bit.

"So what sins are you covering?" I ask.

Look! I got a real smile, not just a little hint, but an actual grin. And for a second he looks really mischievous, like a little kid like me. "I would not dare tarnish your innocence by relating the tales," he says, and his voice is still flat, but the Force – I can feel it dancing all around us, like glowbugs in summer, all flittery and bright. It feels good. I think Master Obi-Wan and me could actually be good friends if I could just figure out his sense of humor and if he would be a bit more like Mom sometimes and maybe if I remembered to put my clothes in the laundry chute every once in a while.

"We mustn't keep Master Windu waiting," he says, and that good feeling goes away, and my stomach kinda drops into my legs. Master Windu really _is_ scary. He's prob'ly killed a zillion bad people, some of them just by _looking_ at them. I'm gonna be like him someday, actually. When I'm a Jedi Knight. But that doesn't mean I want to talk to him.

"Master Windu?" _Boshuda. _"Are we going to talk to the Council?"

"No." Now we're in the hallway, and going along pretty fast toward the lifts. There's no turning back, and I have to jog to keep up. So much for not running in the corridors. "We are accompanying him on a journey to Outer Gola."

_Poodoo!_

"Anakin."

It's not like I said it aloud. Master doesn't approve of vulgarity. He says it's unbecoming. I'm trying to remember all the words and phrases that aren't allowed for Jedi. Mostly it's the really good juicy ones that help you say what you think about stupid bugsquat and stuff. I guess Jedi have to be polite all the time, even when they're killing bad people. I wonder if Master ever cussed his head off when something bad happened – but it's sort of hard to imagine, so prob'ly not.

And I'm still kinda glowing 'cause we could, just maybe, be really good friends, so I say "Sorry," and keep trotting along, even though I don't want to go anywhere with Master Windu.

Maybe they'll let me pilot the air speeder on the way to the spaceport. That would be totally _rugged._


	8. Chapter 8

**Inheritance**

* * *

**8.**

"No, Anakin, you are not piloting the air speeder." For stars' sake, I've _seen_ how you fly – and beyond that, how many dozens of times have I been subjected to your recitation of the grand epic of your Podrace Victory? And what sane being, after hearing that chilling tale, would ever let you set foot in a cockpit again?

He clambers sullenly over the running board and into the passenger compartment, casting me a wounded look over one shoulder. He settles in the broad seat with a passable imitation of demure acceptance, but I am not deceived. The taxi driver pulls away from the docking pad with a gentle lurch, and we swoop into a restricted air-lane heading directly for the municipal spaceport. Our pilot tactfully raises the privacy shields, enclosing us in a sound and wind-free bubble of shimmering blue.

"I know how to fly one of these things," my Padawan insists. "So why don't you trust me to do it?"

I am already weary of this tired rhetorical trope. Anakin reduces every matter of simple discipline to a question of trust. It confounded me at first; but upon due consideration, I think it may be another indelible scar of slavery: for every restriction placed upon a slave is, in the last analysis, a testament to distrust, a caution against escape or rebellion. That anyone should _willingly_ submit to a rule of life, to a code of conduct, to obedience motivated not by fear but by love of the higher good – this he finds utterly absurd, a notion so foreign to his untrammeled spirit that it strikes him as a personal insult.

Where do I even _begin_ to correct that profoundly skewed perspective?

"Not me; and not just you. The entire legislative body of this planet has declared all persons of your tender years ineligible to pilot air cars, until attaining the age of sixteen standard and passing a rigorous competency examination. You are the victim of a sweeping generalization."

This rational argument would likely have been likelier to turn an angry stampeding bantha from its path than to deflect the boy from his established point of view. "But we're Jedi," he protests. "How come the stupid laws have to apply to us? Don't any of the other Padawans drive air cars around the city?"

"Not this city, Anakin. We follow local law and custom as far as possible. The planetary security could arrest you for piloting without a license."

"You would come bail me out," he asserts, blithely. "Like you did the other day." He folds his arms across his very small chest in the most vexing posture of smug self-assurance I have ever witnessed. Qui-Gon Jinn would have had his _hide _ for such a languid display of disrespect. I should know.

…Qui-Gon.

There is no death. There is the Force.

"Master, are you okay? Why are you looking at me like that?" Anakin demands, the pout transforming into an even more unwelcome curiosity.

I'm not looking at you like _anything, _ my very young apprentice. I'm saved from making any awkward reply by a sudden disturbance in the traffic ahead; our air car takes an evasive turn too narrowly, sending us into a sharp swerve. Centrifugal force sends Anakin sliding across the bench, practically into my lap. The pilot shakes his fist at another vehicle's driver; thank the Force our privacy shields block out his imaginative deployment of obscenities. Anakin needs no help expanding his idiomatic vocabulary.

"Wizard!" the boy yelps as we bump and jolt our way back into the assigned free-fly lane. "We almost got _crisped_ right there! This is intense!"

I am being tested. There is really no other plausible explanation. I firmly scoot the bundle of gangly limbs and disorderly tunics back onto his own side of the bench, and peer over the speeder's side. The spaceport is mercifully near- one or two more districts, a twenty minute flight in this appalling mid-day traffic, but near enough to provide assurance that present torment will be of short duration.

"You know how you said the legal flying age is sixteen?" Anakin's nimble mind returns to the topic of unresolved dispute like an akk to its vomit. "Master Muln said that you and he –"

"Master Muln is not a reliable source of historical narrative, Padawan," I inform him. Severely. After last night's sparring session, I wager Garen will not so readily disseminate any further ill-chosen tidbits of information to the younger generation. Not unless he wants to be a piece of history himself.

"What's so funny, master?"

Never you mind, my young friend. "Nothing. I was reflecting on what a fine pilot Master Muln is." His skill is far superior to my own; after all, he has spent over a decade perfecting it. Perhaps he should have spent that time perfecting his defensive saber form instead… but who am I to criticize my colleague, one who even now sports a number of bruises directly proportionate to his unchecked garrulity? Garen is a good comrade, and I will draw a discreet veil over his shortcomings. I covered for him all those years ago, too, taking the blame for that whole unfortunate incident even though the idea was his to begin with.

"I bet he got to start before he was sixteen," Anakin sniffs. "Maybe I could join the Pilot Program, too."

"It's been discontinued, at least officially. Besides, last time you were in a spacecraft's cockpit, you blasted a capital ship to smithereens."

The boy lights up, reveling in the memory. "You say that like it's a bad thing," he accuses me.

"Anakin. Do you _aspire_ to leave a trail of unprecedented wreckage in your wake, or is that merely an unfortunate side effect?"

His mouth twists to one side, and his eyes squint at me with a mettlesome blue light. "You do a lotta collateral damage, too, master," he points out, fair brows drawn together into a fierce scowl. "I've been watching. Or do you call that _aggressive negotiations?"_

Block, feint, and counterattack. I am _not_ engaging in a semantic battle with a _child –_ of the Chosen or the common garden variety. "I call it the consequences of impertinence," I decide, airily. "You may call it what you like."

I will grant this much: Anakin Skywalker is a very bright boy. And so he wisely changes the topic. "So where are we going? I mean, Outer Gola – what kind of a place is that? And why are we going there?"

The Gola system boasts three inhabitable worlds – Inner, Prime, and Outer. All three have been colonized by the unscrupulous descendants of original settlers. That is to say, the progeny of Gola's earliest pioneers, a motley assortment of exiled criminals and outcasts who chose a difficult existence on a barely civilized planet over incarceration in a standard Galactic penal institution. And who can blame them, really? Outer Gola is an ice-crusted wasteland, a world occupied by measureless tundra except in its narrow equatorial regions, where hardy beings can scrape together a pathetic existence as miners or manufacturing laborers for off-world industrial interests.

This cesspit currently plays generous host to a small group of refugees called the Feorians, a people thought to be utterly extinct until five years ago.

"I've not told you the story of the Feorians?"

No." Anakin looks at me suspiciously, doubtlessly anticipating a dull academic lecture ahead.

"It was one of Master Qui-Gon's most infamous stunts. We paid dearly for his defiance of the Council on that occasion."

This, naturally, piques his interest. "What happened?" he prompts me, beaming with eager attention.

I am going to regret this. But it's too late now, and better that he hear the tale _accurately,_ from me, rather than in one of its fanciful retellings. "They were slaves," I begin, simply enough. "And…" - Oh dear. I _am_ going to regret this, aren't I? - "…we freed them."

* * *

Note: For any readers wishing, like Anakin, to hear a full recounting of Master Jinn's past dealings with the Feorians, the tale is told in full by its principal participants in _Exodus._


	9. Chapter 9

**Inheritance**

* * *

**9.**

* * *

"It's not a first class accommodation, but the steward has issued us a private cabin," I inform the two newcomers.

The spaceport is unending cacophony, a paroxysm of disorder. The Skywalker boy is peering out into the clamor, awe-struck. I doubt he heard a syllable of what I said; but his master nods once, a corner of his mouth twitching upward. He understands that the beleaguered ship's steward intends to show us the maximum degree of respect possible without compromising the profit margins of his company; the free berths assigned to us reflect his painstaking tabulation in which the loss of a first class cabin fare was weighed against the potential displeasure of two Jedi. "Well," Kenobi remarks, "At least it's not the cargo hold."

I don't miss the subtle nudge he gives his Padawan, to reel the boy's wandering attention back to the present moment – but I pretend not to have seen. Skywalker starts a little and immediately looks up at his teacher, carefully folding his hands into opposite sleeves and adopting a slightly swaggering gait as I lead the way up the wide passenger ramp into the ship's interior. It's strange to see Kenobi trailed by his own personal shadow; not so long ago, it was Qui-Gon Jinn who was perpetually attended by a gangly and hero-worshipping echo of himself, one that imitated his every gesture and habit with profound dedication to form and detail.

Force, I suddenly feel old.

A porter droid importunes us halfway down the interior corridor. ""Luggage, good sirs?" it inquires politely, tugging an already heavily laden trolley behind it.

"No, thank you," Kenobi replies. Seldom would a Jedi bring more than he can carry, and that in a small satchel. We flatten ourselves against the bulkhead as the porter drags his trolley past, the precarious stacks of valises and travel cases wobbling comically atop its hovering platform. The luggage droid is followed by another, this one pushing a food cart down the narrow aisle, heading for the first class cabins on the starboard side.

Skywalker tugs at Kenobi's cloak as we move on, blond head craning over one shoulder in the direction of the disappearing droids. A savory aroma mingles with the scrubbed tang of 'cycled air.

"Patience," Kenobi tells him, a soft line appearing between his brows.

Our cabin door is battered and the pressure pistons emit a discordant shriek when it slides open, but the space within is clean – by Galactic spacefaring standards – and comfortably outfitted with cushioned acceleration couches, the sort that can be converted to bunks for longer journeys.

The Skywalker boy knows enough protocol by now to wait until his elders are seated before flopping unceremoniously down beside his master. His feet swing a few centimeters off the floor. "When's breakfast?" he whispers in Kenobi's ear.

"At _lunch,_ if you mention it again," the latter person warns him, casting me an apologetic look before turning a severe eye back upon his apprentice. Skywalker's gaze flits from his mentor's face over to mine and then back again, before he subsides into a sullen knot of oversized cloak and bristling gold-tipped hair.

A little patience _would_ do the Padawan some good. I decide to overlook this first display of less than perfect comportment. Even I was a growing and famished boy at one time. Old Yoda could tell the stories, if he ever desired to publicly humiliate me – and though I've not given him occasion to exercise his magisterial rights in any number of decades, I would be foolish to say that he _never_ would. Yoda is nothing if not unpredictable.

And we do not always see eye to eye, whatever common Temple opinion might dictate.

Yesterday's private conversation regarding Kenobi and Skywalker was a paradigmatic example. My old master was in one of his _moods._

"_Defiant, the boy is," he chuffed at me. "Defiant, too, the master. Reap the fruits of a shared flaw, they do. Speak not to me of leniency, Mace Windu. Hear you I do not."_

_I prepared his favorite tea. Such cantankerous statements are nothing more than the dross of his displeasure, a hedge of thorns and barbs erected against the faint-hearted. I learned long ago to push through such psychic obstacles. Besides, he does not frighten me. Not with his needling words._

"_Sweet-cane in your tea?' I offered. Yoda hates the stuff._

"_Vile. How drink such filth you can, I know not." he snorted back. _

"_So you do hear me." Ha. And no, he did not acknowledge the hit, but I had his real attention at that point. This is the only way to speak to him when he's in a snit. I should know._

_All I received in reply was a wave of the hand and a wrinkle of his nose. But I know what that signifies. I sat down opposite, like any youngling ready to receive instruction, and leaned forward earnestly. "It's not right that we should so burden any one Jedi with the training of that boy. He's… unique. Possibly in history. Obi-Wan deserves the benefit of the Council's wisdom, the experience of centuries. He can't be expected to reinvent Jedi training single-handedly, when he's barely completed his own."_

_And that's when the old one caught me completely off guard. He can do that, even now. "Underestimate him, perhaps you do," was his laconic retort._

_Fierfek. There are things about Yoda I will never comprehend, vast canyons and abysses lying deep beneath the ocean of his long experience, places deep in the Force where I have never yet penetrated. Some of it concerns the future, the great balance, the shifting of Light and Dark. I hope I have the wisdom to know when to back away, however. _

_I bowed my head. "I merely plead the cause of compassion, master."_

_He can never resist that. Fifty years ago – yes, a full half-century – I was already taller than he is. We both had more hair then. And I called him master, morning noon and night, and developed the first foundations of Vapaad while dodging playful strikes at my shins from that infernal gimer stick of his. He won't turn a deaf pointed ear on an appeal to such a hallowed bond. _

_He grunted at me, crosser than ever. "Very well, youngling. Interfere at will, you may. Perhaps learn something also, you will." One blunt claw was thrust under my nose, and then he lapsed into peevish silence, wrinkled lips pursing as he sipped at his revoltingly bitter, unsweetened tea, green eyes regarding me sagely over the bowl's rim._

And maybe I will indeed learn something. But Yoda's threats to that effect don't frighten me, any more than the Force itself would. I decide that none of us – neither Kenobi nor Skywalker, nor myself – should embark upon such a profoundly educational venture on an empty stomach. I summon an attendant from the outer corridor and watch in amusement as my two traveling companions' blue eyes widen in surprise at my demand that the droid bring us the most extensive breakfast available on the shipboard menu.

"Wizard," the Skywalker boy reverently intones, and for once, Kenobi omits to reprimand him for it.


	10. Chapter 10

**Inheritance**

* * *

**10.**

I can't sleep.

Mostly 'cause it's too cold. It's always like that in space. It's funny 'cause when I was growing up I always thought space would be like home, kinda hot. I mean, with all those stars burning all over the place, I figured it would be like the desert without any atmosphere to shield you, and a spaceship would have to keep you cool and safe, the way home always kept Mom and me safe during a sandstorm. But it's not like that, really. Instead, it's cold and empty.

I kind of feel empty inside, too. We ate plenty today but mostly other than that it was boring, lots of sitting around talking and then of course we had to meditate and I couldn't make an excuse in front of Master Windu and they kept going forever and forever with it and I thought I was going to die of sitting still. I feel kinda _hollow, _right here inside my chest - 'cause guess what we talked about all day?

Slaves.

I wish the stupid steward droid gave us more than one blanket apiece. I'm freezing _and _my chest feels funny. If Mom were here, she would know without me saying anything and she would bring me another blanket and maybe stay for awhile until my chest stopped hurting so much. She would _understand._ But she isn't coming, is she? I mean, she's stuck on Tatooine and all, working for that sleemo Watto. She's a slave. Still.

Nobody freed her.

Master Qui-Gon tried, that's what he said. It's true 'cause he said it.

Except Master Obi-Wan always says there is no try, only do or do not.

So how come Master Qui-Gon _did not_ free Mom? Did he not like her or something? She liked him, and I thought he really meant it when he said he was sorry, after the podrace when I got all the prize money and Watto wouldn't let us buy Mom too. Now my chest _really _ hurts, so bad that it's making my eyes leak, and it's _so_ cold. I'm shivering like I might be sick. One time at home when I stuck my hand under some junk to get this credit chit I saw down there, a baby _drassil_ bit me. I was really, really sick and Mom was scared and I was shaking like this only worse and the local medic came and said I was gonna die. But I didn't, 'cause I decided not to. Mom needed me too much. So I just made the poison go away out of me – kinda by thinking really hard about it.

Maybe if I do that now…. But I _can't _make the cold go away, or the bad feeling either. It's _different_ from just stupid old poison. It's _inside_ me in a different way.

If I squint in the dark, I can see Master Windu up on the top bunk that folds down from the bulkheads near the ceiling. He looks like that picture of a jungle colwar I saw in the Archives the other day. He's all still and quiet and he blends into the dark so you can only tell he's there because of his breathing and the way he sort of _fills up_ a room , like when it's gonna be a lightning storm and all the old folks can feel it in their joints before it comes. It's kinda hard to believe that Master Windu actually sleeps, but I guess he does, at least sometimes.

I thought the same thing about Master, too, when I first met him, After Naboo, when we got back to the Temple I mean, he didn't sleep for like five nights running and I started to wonder if maybe Jedi just always stayed awake and didn't need to rest. And then he just _passed out_ one night and he was dead to the world for like a whole day. That's when I met Master Muln the first time. He's nice, mostly, and he came by that day and talked to me and took me around with him all over the place while Master Bant stayed with Master Obi-Wan. She said he was _out of commission_ for a while but he would be all right and he didn't know what was good for him, either. It sounds bossy, but I could tell she was a little bit worried actually. And she said that even Jedi have to sleep, so that answered my question. She's a healer, I think, and she looks kinda like a fish, which is _rugged._ She has these enormous round eyes and everything. Master Muln said that grief claims a heavy toll, or something like that, but I don't think he got it quite right. Master Obi-Wan didn't even cry at Qui-Gon's funeral. I watched him super carefully and he just _didn't._

But anyway, he's definitely asleep right now. And he doesn't fill up the room the same way that Master Windu does. It's more like a night-light, the kind Mom used to leave on for me when she thought I was afraid of the dark. I'm not afraid of _anything_ - but I didn't tell her 'cause I really liked the way the little glow-lamp made everything in my room seem more beautiful and softer, like Mom and me were really free and all, and how it kept shining all night long no matter how dark it got outside, like it didn't care or anything. It was a nice lamp but Threepio broke it when he was stumbling around before I got his motivator circuits installed right.

Master won't care if I just kinda snuggle up next to him. After all, now we've got _two_ blankets to share and besides, he's pretty warm anyway and he has a good smell – clean and a little spicy, 'cause he's a fanatic about being neat and all. My shivering starts to go away, so maybe I'm not really sick or at least not too bad. What do they do to you if you get sick when you're a Jedi? Watto used to get mad 'cause I couldn't work… and then he would call the nasty veterinarian. Animal doctors cost less than people doctors and there's not much difference between a slave and an animal anyway, I guess.

"Anakin?" Master says, all groggy, and frowning even though his eyes are closed.

"I'm _cold._"

He says something else, all mumbling. I think it might have been _stars' end._ He says that one a lot. But then he's quiet again, and I think maybe he's gone back to sleep. "Cept he's hogging the whole bunk and there's not much room for me so I push him just _gently_ toward the wall to make more room, with both my hands shoving in his side. Only that wakes him up again.

"_Anakin," _ he grumbles, with more of an irritated sound this time.

"I think I'm sick," I tell him. When we did that braiding thing, he promised that he would protect me and stuff. I hope he won't call the veterinarian. His hand comes up and touches the side of my head, and he doesn't say anything for a long time. Maybe I am sick, really bad this time. "What happens to a Padawan that gets sick?" I wonder. It might be pretty severe. Jedi are strict.

"Oh, his master generally maroons him on the nearest asteroid and promptly finds a healthier replacement," he tells me, with his voice all flat again.

He's joking. I can tell 'cause if that were true, then he wouldn't tell me. He would tell me something else instead, that was only kind of true depending how you look at it. "So did Master Qui-Gon ever do that to you?"

"Several times," he decides, and then he scoots over onto one side, not with his back to me though, which gives me lots more room and I can scoot even closer and maybe I'm not so sick after all. I feel warmer and that weird hurting feeling in my chest is going away, so I won't have to worry about that marooning thing, even if it weren't just a big load of bantha poodoo Master Obi-Wan made up to tease me.

Mom never teased me, not like that – but it feels all right. Sort of friendly. Maybe.

"Our conversation with Master Windu earlier disturbed you," Master says, all soft and quiet. He mostly doesn't say things that way. When he promised that I would be a Jedi, that night on Naboo, his voice was the same way – and I knew he really meant it. "I'm sorry, Anakin," he adds, and I know he means it this time too.

"'S okay," I say, even though it's not really. But it kinda is right now. It's nice to be warm and safe and for once I don't mind that somebody can see right through me into the inside where it's confusing. "I really hate talking about _slaves,"_ I tell him.

"I know," he says, and then he pauses like maybe he was going to say something else, but he doesn't. He puts his hand on top of my head again and then suddenly it's _really_ warm and cozy and there's light everywhere, and..

I was going to say something else… about the Feorians and slaves and stuff… but I can't remember….cause I'm getting all sort of…. sleepy…. and….


	11. Chapter 11

**Inheritance**

* * *

11.

There is something amiss here.

I felt it before we even set down upon Outer Gola's most extensive spaceport docking pad – a slab of cracked duracrete poured with casual indifference to symmetry or evenness, located in the middle of a non-descript stretch of tundra. At this time of year, the ice pockets have all but thawed, revealing intrepid clumps of native flora that have taken shelter beneath them all the long months of winter – hardy flowering things, just peeking out beneath a watery sun, shy of being discovered. Our ship's back thrusters inevitably wilt a good swath of them as the pilot sets down. Alas, that my former master is not here to mourn the passing of these_ pathetic life forms…._

And I find myself mourning in his stead, out of a strange filial piety.

But mourning is the shadow of attachment, of greed. I must be more mindful.

Anakin is still hovering underfoot, seemingly oblivious to the unspoken rules of personal space. One moment this child is dashing headlong into the fetid pits of lower Coruscant, without a backward glance; while the next, he is hanging on my proverbial apron-strings the way Bant used to cling to Master Troon's fur in the crèche. I take a discreet step to the left and backward, but he gravitates in the same direction, a small blond moon determined not to leave its ordained orbit.

But of course, he can feel it too. This place is off-kilter. The Force is disturbed.

And Anakin is very young – all but untrained.

We descend the passenger ship's ramp alone; this is the last destination on its far-flung itinerary, a mere refueling stop at the end of a jagged series of hyperspace jumps. Besides the crew, we are the only ones left aboard the massive vessel; and I doubt the pilots will wait much beyond the time requisite to replenish the fuel cells before they depart again. After all, there is no settlement in sight, not a scrap of building or storehouse beyond the pump-station and its droids, and certainly no spacer's lounge with the customary cantina.

This is the middle of nowhere, by anyone's definition. It makes Mos Espa on Tatooine look like a bustling center of commerce. I glance down at Anakin, trailing behind me a pace, to see what his reaction to this desolate landscape might be. His wide eyes are surveying the empty horizons with an innocent wonder.

"Where are the Feorians, master?" he asks, when we reach the cracked platform. The ship's drives provide ambient warmth, but already the chill air is cutting beneath that artificial balminess. I pull my cloak tighter.

"Eastward, about a hundred klicks," I answer, squinting at the dully-textured rise of hills in that direction. The morning sunshine is painfully bright – reflected on melting ice and in the pale dome of the atmosphere. Tundra and scattered glacial rock outcroppings – nothing more.

Beside me, Master Windu releases a sigh. "Our _welcoming_ _committee_ appears to be late," he observes dryly.

Well. That's not good; but then, it certainly is preferable to a welcoming committee armed with blasters and grenades. Much depends on one's point of view, with respect to such inconveniences.

"I'm _cold,"_ my Padawan complains, taking up the litany which he began many hours ago in transit. This could be a very long wait, and I don't fancy being stranded here once the passenger freighter leaves.

"Perhaps the ship has a small ground transport on board," I suggest, though it's doubtful I will be able to convince the crew to let me appropriate it – not without a bit of mind influence, anyway. And that's a touchy subject at the present moment.

"Skywalker," Mace rumbles, withdrawing a pair of macrobinoculars from his belt pouches, "Why don't you scan the horizon- see if you can locate any vehicles coming this way."

The boy eagerly accepts this unnecessary task, and for a moment I wonder why Master Windu has assigned him such a pointless endeavor. After all, we will _sense_ the approach of any incoming craft; and looking for something in the distance does not make it arrive any faster. But Anakin eagerly sets to adjusting the 'noculars to his small face, and then fiddling with the focusing controls. And I have to admit that the ploy keeps him happily occupied and quiet.

And the pleased gleam in Master Windu's dark eyes tells me that this was all he intended, anyway.

I see.

There is more than one way to skin a gundark, particularly when it comes to younglings. I'll remember that, for future use. It's not as though my many years of Jedi training included preparation for _this._ Diplomacy is one thing; childcare quite another. I'm beginning to cultivate a new and profound respect for the crèche-masters, my own former caretakers not least among them.

Anakin moves to the edge of the solid docking pad, in order to gain an unobstructed view of the eastern ridges. I suspect he might actually be watching some native springers bounding among their slopes, but that keeps him occupied, does it not?

I hate to say it, but… "I have a bad feeling about this," I confide in Master Windu.

He issues no decrees about constraining one's focus to the at-hand. "I feel it, too," he says, in his deep baritone." A moment's consideration, in which he dwells in the Force, inhaling Light with the frost-laden air. "It is good we came," he decides.

I nod. Yes. If there is something _wrong_ here, then it is indeed good that Jedi should stumble upon it. In this star-forsaken wilderness, how many would have the initiative or resources to call halfway across the galaxy for help?

"They're coming! They're coming!" Anakin hollers, as though heralding the advent of some celebrity podracer and his entourage. He trains the macro-nocs on the tiny cloud of approaching dust and watches the grav-sled train meander its way across the intervening plains.

And when the ramshackle conveyance – a sort of bedraggled convoy of salvaged sleds and hover barges – does come to a halt beside the duracrete platform, Anakin is too engrossed in examining its magnetic coupling mechanisms and primitive repulsorlifts to be of any use. I glance at Master Windu, but he seems unconcerned by the boy's distraction. Already more than once, Anakin's inherent mechanical genius has saved us from certain… complications… on a mission; and so, permitting him this moment of curiosity may not be an unwise thing in the end.

The driver of this ingenious and dilapidated contraption is a Feorian. I have not set eyes upon one of his people in five years, since the last time Qui-Gon and I were able to visit them, before they were manipulated by unscrupulous politicians into moving here to their permanent "Cultural Reservation" on Outer Gola. But his drooping posture and haggard face seem even more pathetic than I recall. Surely freedom should not weigh so heavily upon its possessors?

"My lord Jedis," this tall, gangly fellow addresses himself to us. "Sorry, I am, to be so tardy in fetching thee. But the _jabbuur-weki _struck again last night, and all is in an uproar. There are several more of the _empty ones_ among us, and the village must be purged of evil spirits yet again."

Oh. So it's going to be one of _those_ sort of trips, is it? … Just lovely.


	12. Chapter 12

**Inheritance**

* * *

12.

Our Feorian escort is not a gregarious fellow. He sits hunched at the guidance system of the foremost hover-car, the makeshift engine of this cargo-tram, keeping his sunken eyes trained steadily upon the ice-crusted plains, cautiously veering in long arcs around any stony protuberances that thrust up from the frozen soil. Slabs of broken granite are embedded helter-skelter along the curves and dips of the land, evidence of some ancient glacial erosion.

The train is neither heated nor enclosed, but our skinny, bent-backed driver was kind enough to provide us with hand-woven blankets, a rare artifact in this day and age. I sit behind the engineer's seat, watching the bleak swells of land rise and fall like the waves of some forlorn sea. Kenobi and his Padawan rest against the opposite side of the rattling cab, the frigid wind whipping at their hair, raking bright spots of pink across fair cheeks. Skywalker is huddled close against his master's side, practically under his wing like the famous sculpture of the dove and its hatchling in the Alderaanian Peace Garden.

In truth, the pair of them remind me more of that late Scozzi period painting – "The Orphans," I believe it's titled. It's displayed prominently at the Coruscant Intergalactic Museum of Art in the classicist wing. You would think that these two boys were the original models. A fanciful person might describe the scene as picturesque. But I am not a fanciful person. Were I not Jedi, I would say the Force made a mistake; Qui-Gon should have survived to this day and well beyond, the old scoundrel.

Kenobi's eyes meet mine briefly, and the barely perceptible frown-line between his brows amply conveys his ironic perceptiveness. Apparently my thoughts were not well shielded; and apparently, he finds my pity slightly irksome. As he should; a Jedi is never truly bereaved, while he has the Force, and the Force _cleaves_ to Kenobi as it does to few others. You could strip this man of everything, and yet he would not be alone. Yoda sees it – I'm convinced of that. _Underestimate him, perhaps you do_. I lean back, crossing my arms, and direct my gaze forward, past our hunched driver's form, to the rolling tundra beyond. In the distance, the irregular geometry of a flat village can be spied, peeking between two dull swells in the land.

"This _jabuur-weki,"_ I address him. "A native predator?" Or perhaps a band of roaming outlaws or thieves? – Outer Gola is far from the reach of Galactic Law, in all but name. This may be part of the Republic, but it's a forgotten part.

The Feorian turns mournful eyes upon me, allowing his gaze to stray dangerously from the road ahead. "The _jabuur-weki,"_ he declares solemnly, in his rasping voice, "Hast thou not heard of it, lord Jedi?"

"Not lord," I correct him. "And no, we've not heard of it."

Kenobi waves a hand, tumbling a heavy stone out of our path at the last moment. The train hurtles onward, its guide still studying me intently. The Force smoothes again. "Beware the _jabuur-weki,"_ the Feorian intones, theatrically. "It comes for those who hath violated the Old Ways." His head wobbles atop his scrawny neck as he finally returns his attention to our distant goal. "It has punished many, of late. A spirit, it is, a guardian of our people."

The Skywalker boy's face is twisted into a skeptical grimace, but he holds his tongue. This may be due to the restraining hand placed on his knee. Kenobi merely flicks his own gaze in my direction, once, and then asks the obvious question.

"Has anyone _seen_ this apparition?"

But our new acquaintance scoffs. "Seen it? Thou knowest nothing, truly. Reveal itself only to those it comes to claim, the _jabuur-weki _ does. Do not wish to see it," he advises, with a shudder. "Many have seen it of late, and the _jabuur-weki_ is that which hath taken their souls and left their bodies to linger on like empty gourds."

"Naturally," Kenobi concludes with a droll lift of the brows.

"Master," his Padawan interrupts, in a low whisper.

"Later, Anakin."

And by some miracle of the Force, the boy remains silent.

"Perhaps we can help," I offer. We are duty bound to render assistance where it is needed.

But my suggestion is met with stony disapprobation. "The _jabuur-weki_ is an avenging spirit," the Feorian mumbles. "We do not wish to rebel against its judgment. Your help is not needed, lord Jedis."

I see. Now Skywalker's mouth is hanging open in disbelief. I fix him with a sober look and he seems to remember his place, clamping his jaw shut and looking up at Kenobi again, blue eyes glittering with a hundred unasked questions.

I know how you feel, son. I have a few of those, myself. But it is clear that this ignorant if well-intentioned fellow is not the one who will answer them. We must have patience, and learn more.

Eventually, the clattering hover-train bumps and jostles to an inelegant halt on the outskirts of the village, which upon closer inspection proves to be no more than an orderly cluster of long-houses, constructed of hardened earth and roofed in scrap material from some industrial smelting-house. There are no roads, and no vehicles in sight beyond this one ersatz passenger line. Out of low-slung doorways emerge Feorians, in twos and threes, and then in clusters of a half-dozen, all of them mournful and gangly, and staring at us with large, unblinking eyes. There are hardly any children among them, and many elderly. Among them is an ornament-bedecked elder, hoary and hobbling on aging joints. He leans heavily on a carved staff of office, and is attended by a bevy of others, their slanting shoulders draped in rudely-embroidered stoles, a sign of rank or authority. The women, I notice, remain sheltered within the gloom of the houses. I can feel their regard settle with juridical interest upon our 'sabers and the sweep of our dark cloaks as we exchange bows with the leaders.

"Welcome," the chieftain greets us, with a ceremonial gesture. "Please – we are honored to host you, lord Jedis. But daylight dwindles. Beneath a roof, should we be."

And so we proceed, across the hard-packed, still-frozen earth of the village square, into one of the squalid shelters that ring it, where we will spend our first night among these lost people, this mysterious and exiled race. Kenobi enters the darkened hut first, followed closely by Skywalker.

I take one last look at the village, the long dusking shadows crawling over the trampled dirt. And I bring up the rear, already aware that this will be no simple ambassadorial visit.

Because the Force here is acutely disturbed.


	13. Chapter 13

**Inheritance**

* * *

13.

I'm s'posed to be meditating, but I just _can't._ Not when everything is so twisty and jiggery all over the place. Master says the Force is disturbed, and we have to meditate. He really likes holding still, and I just don't get it. I mean, I feel really weird right now, kind of like everything is messed up on the inside and the outside together, like I'm being squeezed in a lot of different directions and I can't really breathe – and wouldn't it make more sense to just go really, really _fast? _When I'm flying – podracing, I mean – then this feeling can't catch up with me. It's like I can think clearly and see things how they really are and there's nothing in the universe but me and the stuff and the people I care about and everything will be okay because I can _make_ it be okay.

I really wish I could be podracing and feel that way right now, but Master says we have to meditate instead. Like he always does. 'Cept I can't focus too good, not with all these other things messing around in my mind. I squint my eyes open to check on Master, and he's still sitting there, with his hands resting on his knees, and his eyes are closed. I think he actually likes meditating. You can tell. He sort of shines and he's really, really calm almost like he was that day when Master Qui-Gon was still alive and they were talking in the ship on the way to Coruscant, before they got all mad at each other. I was watching and I saw how calm and happy Master was then, too. He was joking about the hyperdrive failing again because of Master Qui-Gon getting defective parts. And they kept saying stuff to each other that I didn't understand but the more serious their faces got the more the Force sort of danced and spun and I could tell it was a happy argument and more like a game.

Master hasn't really smiled the same way since then, except I think when he meditates sometimes he smiles on the inside like that, a little bit. Or maybe when we joke around, which isn't that much 'cause I'm still getting the hang of it, but that's different anyway. Do you think the Force _talks_ to him? I mean, not in words exactly, but somehow? That would be wizard. Maybe if I practiced more it could be that way for me too but I don't know. I think it takes a long, long time to be able to do that. Being a Padawan takes for like forever. You should have seen how long Master's braid was, before it got cut off. It was past his _waist._ That's a whole lotta years. I'll be about a bazillion by the time my braid's that long and Master will be an geezer like Old Man Puuler back home on Tatooine.

This is soooo boring, but I'll get in _hoocha _big trouble if I fidget too much, so I'll just hold still and think about something else. Hey! You know what? That train thingummy could work a whole lot better if they would just calibrate the repulsors on the different sleds. I bet I could rig that up in no time. All you have to do is tweak the regulator on the drive for the first one, and then run a sync-pulse circuit through the polarizer for the rest. If I can scrounge up the right parts, I bet I could make it ride like a sweet landspeeder. It would be easy. I bet the Feorians would like that. Who wants to go riding around in a rickety old piece of poodoo?

The Feorians are weird. They gave us dinner in that big common house place, with the fire pit inside. I thought the food was pretty good, mostly tuber-mash and flatbread, sort of like the stuff Mom made back home. The other vegetable dish I didn't try, and the _insects_ I think made Master's stomach turn. They did have a lot of legs and stuff, and hairs, I think. But if you're hungry enough you will eat anything, and that's how Mom and me learned to eat bugs. They aren't so bad, really. Master Windu ate them without blinking, almost like he thought they were good, and then Master Obi-Wan actually tried one or two but I noticed that he said no thanks to seconds when the serving tray came around again. I kinda thought he would say that eating bugs is "uncivilized" but he was super polite when the chieftain offered him some, so I guess it was a diplomacy thing. And he's really good at keeping a straight face. The music the Feorians made was pretty sad, I thought. They had that big drum thingy with the hide stretched over it like Tuskens use on their shelters, and those long reed tubes for blowing into and the music sounded kind of like a herd of dying banthas mostly but I didn't make a face or _anything _ and I even clapped at the end because Master did and I can be _diplomatic_ too, if I have to.

Some of the music was s'posed to be about that _jabuur-weki_ thing, too. It sounds a lot like some of the stories people used to tell around Mos Espa, like the scary ones that mostly just kept slaves from daring to run away. There was this one story about Ben-Attur-Yavi, Wizard of the Black Hills, and all the terrible stuff he would do to folks that he caught up in the rock formations on the dune sea. That one was a whole lotta _boshuda_ lies… I think. There's no such person as Black Ben the Wizard. But people talked so much about him that sometimes when stuff went wrong everybody would blame it on him, like he had put a curse on the town. I think this _jabuur-weki_ is like that, maybe.

But then again, there were people that got _crisped_ by this thing.. And somebody real had to do _that. _I really want to ask Master about it, but his eyes are still closed and I don't think I should bother him. And what I _really_ want to talk to him about is the Feorians and the whole story of how him and Master Qui-Gon freed them.

I've gotta _lot_ of questions about that.


	14. Chapter 14

**Inheritance**

* * *

14.

It is difficult to meditate; I cannot easily maintain my anchor while Anakin's distraction tugs persistently at my mind. He is disturbed; he has been since we first discussed the Feorians. Since I admitted that Jedi _do,_ sometimes, free slaves.

Outside Republic jurisdiction we have no right to interfere with the established laws and customs of any world; we cannot impose our will upon those who do not recognize the same principles simply because we have the power. I know this; I have heard it time and again, argued its cause and worth until I am hoarse… and yet, there is still part of me that would shy away from the harsh truth it entails. We cannot save everyone.

Qui-Gon Jinn made exceptions as he saw fit. And now, with a twist of dread, I wonder why he did not make more of an exception for Anakin's mother. I never met her… but she must have been a remarkable woman in her own way. My master tried to buy her freedom when he liberated Anakin; but in the end, he was thwarted and left her behind on Tatooine, sadly languishing in the throes of slavery. Did he intend to go back later? Knowing him, he might have. He said nothing to me about it…. but what cause had I given him, then, to confide in me? I had the temerity, after _that_ Council session, to -

_Breathe._

There is no emotion. There is peace.

… Should _I _ undertake that which he did not live to see done? Against every precept and precedent, and surely against the advice of the Council? _Train the boy._ That was and is my all-consuming mandate; and I must ask also whether such a covert action would teach anything of value. Attachment. Non-acceptance. Defiance. Disregard for law. Emotionality. _Possession._ _Control._ Are these to be my legacy to the "Chosen One"?

What is more important: the restoration of Balance… or the fate of this one good woman – one who courageously bid her son go on his way without her, to keep his face toward whatever destiny lies at his feet? The Force itself seemed to ordain these events. So why does my heart rebel, and for whom – in the last accounting – does it so ache? For she who accepted her lot, or for him, who must continue on alone, forsaking her comfort and guidance?

Shmi Skywalker, Qui-Gon said, was at peace. The Force, he said, would find a way to free her, if it were meant to be. Freedom, he said, spared no one insecurity, suffering or death. Shmi understood these things. She gave her son away without attachment.

But her son lives in fear for her. I sense it. We are bonded now, too, and I have shared unwillingly in his nightmares, seeing that same nameless dark rise to snatch at her, to whisk her away into the howling sand, or to impale her upon a blood-red blade, burning a hole through two hearts at once…

_No._ This is not a path that leads to answers or clarity. _Breathe._

There is no –

"Master?"

Force, I'm tired. "Yes, Anakin?" Why should we pretend to meditate, when neither is able? Master Windu has mercifully chosen to patrol the village perimeter, so we have a moment of privacy.

"This isn't a very nice place to live."

Well, … no. It isn't. "Why do you say that?"

He shrugs, one shoulder lifting and dropping in a gesture of childish reticence. "Dunno. It just isn't, is all. And the Feorians – why did they choose this place? It feels weird here."

It does indeed; but I choose to skim over this latter fact. "The Feorians didn't precisely _choose_ to live here, Padawan. They were offered very few options in the end."

"But I thought you said they were _freed._ How can you be free if you don't have a choice?_"_

Oh dear. But perhaps this is a teaching opportunity. It would be negligent to abstain from giving at least a cursory answer. "Freedom takes more than mere emancipation," I remind him. "They were liberated from slavery, yes; but thereafter, a new life and home had to be found for them. And they had been so many generations in bondage that they hardly knew what to do with themselves. People.. politicians… fought over it, for almost a year. Eventually, a group of scholars and activists arranged for the Feorians to be given unclaimed land – out here, on Gola – so they might preserve their cultural ways. I believe the Galactic Senate subsidizes them in some paltry way. It's not perfect."

"It's _choobazzah,"_ he retorts, face drawn into an impressive scowl, snub nose and round cheeks notwithstanding. "What's the use of freeing people if they end up living like _this?"_

"We did what we could," I reply. How dare he question the wisdom of a man half-a-century his senior, and a wise and powerful Jedi master? The sheer impudence of such implied criticism astounds me… until I remember whom it was that last threw Qui-Gon Jinn's decisions back in his face, and not _with all due respect_, either.

"Well, it wasn't very much, was it?" Anakin snorts, lower lip protruding in an angry pout. "What's the use of being a Jedi if you can't _fix_ things?"

Why, you little –

But we are saved from further acrimonious exchange by the reappearance of Master Windu. A blast of cold night air accompanies him through the crude door of our shelter.

"I sense no immediate danger in the vicinity," he announces, "Though the Feorians have retreated into their shelters as though they expect a siege. Their chieftain informs me that the _jabuur-weki_ passes through at midnight, to lay down judgment on the unworthy."

He crosses the small space and sits down upon the packed earth floor. There are four primitive sleeping mattresses built along the wall – palettes of skin and wooden planks, possibly less comfortable than the floor. Besides these, our guest house contains no furnishings beside a shallow fire pit lined with stone.

"What do you suppose this _avenging spirit_ might truly be?" I inquire. Figments of the collective imagination seldom leave 'living corpses' behind.

"An invisible spirit, I _don't _ think," he rumbles, waving a hand over the glowing embers in the pit. A flare of yellow light leaps up, obedient, and licks at the pile of tinder. His dark Korun features are cast in dancing shadow by the fire.

"The Force is invisible," Anakin pipes up. I cast him a repressive look, but of course it has no effect. "Why not an invisible spirit thing?"

Master Windu considers him gravely. "The Force is visible _everywhere,_ Padawan," he corrects the boy sternly. "Look around you – there is nothing which the Force does not shape and sustain. This _jabuur-weki,_ on the other hand…" He makes a dismissive gesture with one powerful hand, sweeping aside the mythical demon with the ease of one swatting a gadfly away. "I sense an elaborate deception at work here."

"So what're we gonna do about it?" Anakin demands, forgetting his protocols yet again. Why do I even try?

But Master Windu is in a tolerant mood, it would seem. His white smile flashes in the fire-fretted darkness. "The _jabuur-weki_ walks at midnight," he says. "I think we ought to make a formal introduction."


	15. Chapter 15

**Inheritance**

* * *

15.

This journey isn't turning out as I had expected. And therein lies a lesson: expect nothing. I had hoped to spend some time quietly absorbing the Feorians' life-ways, perhaps sparring, meditating, exploring the tundra here. I envisioned a rare opportunity to _relax,_ and more importantly, to observe Kenobi and Skywalker at leisure.

That will have to wait. We've been here less than one planetary rotation, yet our plans have been disrupted already. We were, it seems, preceded by another guest – a most unwelcome one. I do not believe in _avenging spirits - _ and I have seen enough of the galaxy and the mysterious ways of the Force to know that skepticism is a fool's avocation. But there is something too craven and cringing about our hosts' description of this monster. I sense an elaborate _hoax._

But played upon whom, and by whom? And to what end?

"Skywalker," I bark. The boy's attention wanders easily, like all children his age. He jolts out of his reverie and trots to catch up with me. That's all to be expected, nothing worrisome. Half the initiates in the clan dormitories are just as skittish, especially the boys; there are good reasons we don't apprentice some of them until they've outgrown such distractibility. A lapse in attention can be deadly to master and Padawan alike.

I decided to take Skywalker with me tonight; I'd like to know him better. Obi-Wan looked alarmed by the prospect but acquiesced with proper deference and respect. I wonder what catastrophe he anticipates. After all, I've dealt with my own Padawans before, and much worse. He should have more confidence in my abilities, I think.

The village perimeter is marked in white stones, nothing more. They glimmer faintly under the diffuse moonlight, picking out an irregular circle about the confines of the Feorians' rude dwelling-place. All the land for many klicks about is marked off on the maps as a Reservation – yes, every lifeless clump of frozen soil in sight, and all the bracken and thorny native plants thereon. A generous gift of the Galactic Senate and the Outer Golian Presidency.

Now the boy is dogging my footsteps diligently, the Force gently _puckered_ with his concentration. I have to admit, there are depths and depths of potential there. When the Council examined him for the first time, I was astounded by his performance on the standard tests of perception. And the way Anakin Skywalker leaves his stamp on the Force is impressive. This _child_ imprints his signature in the plenum without effort; here, at such proximity to this youngster, I barely feel Obi-Wan's presence on the opposite side of the outskirts, as though it is almost drowned out by the greater luminary.

Or perhaps I should say _veiled_; the humble fixed stars shine steadily, though their presence is seemingly eclipsed by gaudy terrestrial light, or by a sudden yet fleeting supernova. I don't know what to make of this _vergence,_ as Qui Gon had the audacity to name the boy. And the Force itself is silent, as the though Skywalker is its last word, the fait accompli with which we must come to grips.

"Um, Master Windu?" this prodigy inquires of me.

I've been in his company long enough to know that his favorite complaint is that of cold; and it is certainly close to freezing point out here. Our boots crunch on gritty ice as we patrol the lonely expanse. At least there is little wind tonight, and the skies are clear, providing good visibility.

But it isn't the cold which has him so disturbed. "Um," he repeats, shifting nervously foot to foot. "I'm really sorry, but we've been out here a long time and, um…" There is something vaguely familiar about his mincing dance.

_Fierfek!_ I mustn't laugh aloud. A quick scan of our surroundings reveals no convenient rock or tree. I sweep a hand over the empty plains. "Pick a spot, Padawan." There's no need to be fastidious, and I'm unaware of any taboo prohibitions on the Feorians' part.

He still doesn't make a move, the very picture of mortified hesitancy, and I wonder at the strange conjunction of faces that swims before my inner eye. Surely, surely, at some time Qui-Gon had this exact conversation with a much younger Kenobi?… some things are cyclical events, recurrent and predictable as the seasons. Yes - even for Jedi.

"Well?" That doesn't mean _I'm_ going to stand for such unnecessary fuss.

Sullenly, he turns his back and does his business, leaving another soon-to-be-frozen puddle on the stony ground.

"Let's get moving," I suggest, firmly. A few more years' training, and he'll be better able to defer such mundane urges. In the meantime, it's murder out here. _Cold as Hoth._

"What are we looking for, exactly?" he inquires between chattering teeth, as we tramp onward.

"This _jabuur-weki," _I tell him. "Or whomever is posing as such a thing."

"I bet it's raiders," Skywalker offers. "On Tatooine, the Tuskens would make night-time attacks on farmsteads. They're real quiet and you can't track them 'cause they know the desert better than _anybody._. But people blamed a lot of the murders on Black Ben, you know 'cause he's a wizard who can go invisible and kill people by making a _doovoo_ image, and stuff. But really it was just the Sand People. Or sometimes it was bounty hunters working for the Hutts. If you don't pay your protection money, it's _all over._ I don't think Jedi _ever_ came to Tatooine before – not until Master Qui-Gon showed up."

His thoughts are jumbled knot of associations and memories, but there is much truth in what he says. I nod in approval. A healthy dose of dubiety in regard to local legend never harmed anyone.

"Whoa!" the boy hisses, stopping dead in his tracks. "What's that?"

The Force is alight with warning, the air rigid with an electric tension; and then I see it – or _almost_ see it: the ripple of some invisible power, shuddering flickers of light just beyond the visible spectrum, the snap of ionized air, the lingering scent of lightning.

Skywalker is running _toward_ the source of danger before I can issue a command.

"Padawan, wait!" I order, but his feet have carried him across the frosted earth to a misshapen lump, a bundle of homespun garments and elongated limbs sprawled inelegantly across a ragged tussock. I sense Kenobi sprinting toward us, too, his circuit of the village perimeter having brought him nearly round to our location again. We all come to a simultaneous halt at the site of the disaster.

A young Feorian lies inert at our feet. Kenobi is already crouched beside him, hands seeking a pulse, some sign of life.

"He's not _dead…_ but I can't feel his presence at all."

I drop to one knee, meeting his perplexed gaze. The Force seems to have abandoned the victim entirely; where there should be a thrumming nexus of life, there is a hollow void, a small empty place in the universal currents. Skywalker stands just behind his master, one small hand fisted in Obi-Wan's cloak hood, his childish features stricken with horror.

The sightlessly staring Feorian's eyes are twin pools reflecting the moons, gutted yellow orbs shining in the ghoulish light. Tiny puffs of condensed air congeal above his slackened jaws, in rhythm with our own gentle exhalations, but that is all. I reach out, across the endless waste, into village, all around us…. But there is nothing and nobody at all.

The _jabuur-weki _ has struck again, and it would seem that it is indeed an _avenging spirit. _


	16. Chapter 16

**Inheritance**

* * *

16.

That was scary last night. I mean, not that I was scared, but if somebody who wasn't a Jedi had been there, he woulda been _blown away._ That Feorian guy was just staring up at the moon, with his eyes all open and not blinking, and the whole place felt _really_ weird. I could even feel Master tense up a bit. The Force told me that – it was wizard, kinda like we're already good friends and I really _understand_ him, even the stuff he doesn't say. That's why I stayed so close the rest of the night. 'Cause I could tell he was nervous or something.

None of the other Feorians would come outta their houses when we went to tell them and finally Master Windu decided to stay on watch, just in case there was more of whatever that was out there… and Master Obi-Wan and me went back to our own house, the one they gave us I mean, and Master tried to get me to go back to sleep but who would want to do that when something _so_ choobazzi just happened? So then we had to meditate – _again- _but I didn't complain because I could tell that the weird feeling in the Force got Master kinda worked up. I mean a little, not that you could really tell. But he has this serious face sometimes. You'd have to see it to know what I mean.

This morning the whole place is in a big ol' _puggooda _ like that day in Mos Espa when Tarff the beggar died in the street in the middle of the night and everybody blamed everybody else and some of the gutter kids like that sleemo Greedo all went through his pockets looking for money and stuff before anybody could stop them. Speeders came here to the Feorian village from faraway, maybe official government people or something, and the chieftain was all mad and waving his stick around and I thought he was going to shout "_Echoota!"_ at everybody or maybe something even worse, but the grownups all went off to talk with the other people coming from far away and I ended up staying here with the kids.

The Feorian kids are wizard. There's only _seven _ of them in the whole village and mostly they're older than me but it doesn't matter 'cause they think I'm a big chooba bosski 'cause I'm a Jedi and all. They don't get what an apprentice is or anything, so I figured it would just be confusing to explain all that, but it's kinda annoying when they want to see my laser sword and I have to 'splain that I don't have one, not _yet. _ But I will.

And they knew where to get the most _rugged_ breakfast, out of this pit in the ground where it's really cold, like a shipping freighter's refrigeration hold, but without any generators, and they've got tubers and dried meat and stuff all stocked up. It was kinda like Tatooine food and nobody was looking so we had a _feast_ without any utensils or fancy manners or anything. Wait till some of those Jedi kids at the Temple hear about that! They'll prob'ly faint 'cause they're kinda stuck up about being all proper and stuff and they can't even go on a field trip without like a zillion chaperones, and they would _never ever_ raid a pantry.

But me and the Feorians hogged out. It was really good too, and then it was like I was back home 'cause now we're all friends.

They get it. Maybe we could take one of these guys back to the Temple and make him a Jedi too. I know they're s'posed to have midichlorians and all, but I mean does it _really _ matter? I mean, couldn't you just try really hard and if you cared about stuff and you followed all the rules, couldn't you be a Jedi too? Master Obi-Wan says there's lots of Jedi in the galaxy who aren't powerful enough to be Knights and masters and they help in different ways like farming and teaching and stuff. So that's kinda the same. And these Feorians would _definitely_ want to help anybody who was a slave. A lot of them were born slaves, too, just like me.

So then we all hung out in this long house that has these wizard fire pits built into the middle and you could barely tell it's freezing cold outside when you're in there, I think 'cause the walls are made of mud kinda like at home. Isn't that weird? How come the same stuff keeps you hot or cold depending on what's outside? Mud must be more complicated than I thought, more like cybernetic response motivator circuits and less like plain old dirt. Anyway, it's a wizard place and some of them kinda knew about this jabuur-weki thing and they told me some of the stories.

It's not like Ben-Attur-Yavi of the Black Hills at all. It's a whole lot more _wicked._

Lorra – he's the oldest, but he treats me like I'm the same age 'cause I'm a Jedi – he knows the most and he kept the other kids in line when they kept adding in stuff that wasn't _true_ but just stuff people make up to scare each other. Lorra knows the real facts because he hides outside the longhouse when the village elders are talking late at night and smoking hashka, which sounds like the _piimo_ weed the Hutts like so much. And he says the chieftain and the other ones know _all_ about the jabuur-weki 'cause it's their _tradition._

I learned what that is at the Temple. The Jedi have tradition too and it's _way_ important. Everybody studies it and talks about it and uses it to make rules and stuff. So the jabuur-weki is sort of like that, only bad.

It has jaws that bite and claws that snatch, only it's totally invisible.

The Force is kinda like that, too. Some people don't believe in the Force, and _some_ people think it's only an idea, sort of. But the other day when I was watching Master sparring with the other grown-ups, and Master Muln got _thrown_ across the room, all the way into the wall _whammo_ without anybody touching him, that was pretty _choobazzi_ for something that's only an idea. So that makes sense, sort of. Invisible stuff can really _bite_. 'Cept Master Windu says the Force _isn't _ invisible, it's all around us everywhere, so now I don't know what to think. Maybe 'cause you don't see the jabuur-weki it's not from the Force. Or maybe it's Dark.

That would explain why Master was so tense last night. He really, really doesn't like the Dark side. He talks about it a lot, that's for sure.

Me and Lorra are going to go listen to the elders right now, 'cause there's like a whole group of them coming back into the village and maybe we can hide here under these bench things and find out more.

_Boshuda!_ Master Windu is with them! Uh oh… I hope he doesn't notice.


	17. Chapter 17

**Inheritance**

* * *

**17.**

Qui-Gon used always to say that a fresh day would bring fresh perspective. And he was not mistaken, per se; he simply chose to conveniently ignore the corollary proposition – a fresh day often brings fresh trouble, as well.

Today is a fine case in point. Shortly after dawn we were afflicted with a plague of speeders, containing - in ascending order of vexatious prurience - the local subdistrict medical examiner, an officious inspector from this sector's confederacy of beaurocratic dunces, a few dour-faced members of the planetary security forces, and a pestilent mob of _holonet reporters._

"Whoa-ho! Jedi!" one of the more daring wretches accosted us. "Are you fellers here to wreak sweet vengeance on the foul oppressor of these innocent folk? Can I bother ya for an interview?"

"No," Master Windu told him, flatly.

"How 'bout you, my lad? A word to the wise… or at least a smile for the ladies? Six billion viewers in this sector, just show the droid a bit of love there, right?"

I am a patient man. But there are limits. "I don't think so." And I may have _overdone _ it a trifle when I sent the cam-droid spinning off into the distance, but the gesture did serve as ample demonstration to the other clustering scavengers that this is a _Jedi affair, _ not a three-ring circus replete with Sullustan fire-eater and a troupe of comedic mimes.

At this point in the proceedings, Master Windu startled me with a hearty clap on the shoulder. "If I didn't know better, son, I'd say you need a cup of caff this early in the morning."

"Forgive me, master." A Jedi does not indulge in such unseemly displays of temper. "But why are they even _here?"_

Even he had no ready answer for that question. "I don't know… yet. I'll accompany the chieftain and the _important_ visitors to the longhouse; you had better contain the situation here."

A harsh penance, but a well-deserved one. "I'll not let the contagion spread," I promised.

And off they sallied, leaving me here to fend off the ravening hordes single-handedly. Where in the blazes Anakin has got himself to, I don't know – I can feel him faintly somewhere in the Feorian village, full of mischief and curiosity. I do hope there aren't any scrap piles here in the middle of the Outer Golan tundra…. But I haven't time for such idle speculation, because the amassed Holonet forces have suddenly opted for a full frontal assault.

"Hey! Why can't we go into the village? Have a look-see around?"

"There is nothing to see." I've not forgotten Master Yoda's reprimand of only a few days ago – but it's this or aggressive negotiations. And journalists are among the most decidedly weak-minded classes of people in the galaxy. It's an occupational hazard, I suppose. Chakora Seva said that _the mind assumes the form of that upon which it meditates;_ and surely those that spend their days producing insipid drivel for mass consumption are no exception to the rule.

A few of them stop pressing forward so eagerly. But not all were swayed by my suggestion. "Then you can _tell_ us what's going on here! The people have a right to know!"

"Nothing is going on here. There's no breaking news." A few more wander away, deactivating the hopeful cam-droids hovering like a swarm of tisska- gnats just overhead. "Move along, move along."

There seems always to be, in any given crowd, one obstreperous personality over whom mind influence holds no special power. "That's …alarming," this fellow says to me, when his colleagues have dispersed, idling back toward the speeder convoy in knots of two and three, mumbling among themselves.

I fold hands into opposite sleeves, making sure that my cloak covers the lightsaber hilt at my side. There is no need to augment his feeling of unease; we come to serve, not to terrify the citizens of the Republic. "Few would find the dispassion of others a cause for alarm," I reply, mildly. Nothing happened here. There's nothing to remark upon. _Move along._

But he goes nowhere in a hurry. Instead, he inserts a chaw of some filthy low-grade bacci root into his mouth and smiles knowingly as he stands there chewing, much like a bantha ruminating upon its cud. "You here last night?" he inquires conversationally.

"Perhaps."

"So you got to see this _jabuur-weki_ thing?"

Interesting. "The local legend holds it to be invisible," I provide.

He smiles some more, chomping diligently. "I know. I been studying these people and their customs for years. Like to think of myself as an amateur expert." He jerks his head over one shoulder, in the direction of the retreating reporters. "Not like that sensationalist clown-act. I'm trying to _delve_ into the real thing, ya know?" He spits upon the frozen soil, leaving a dark-stained smear of froth a scant meter from my left boot.

Personal feelings and tastes are of no importance whatsoever. Exhale. "An admirable ambition." And it is possible this _amateur expert_ may know more of Feorian custom and legend than the Feorians themselves. I remember well that the original group Qui-Gon freed from slavery had scattered and inaccurate knowledge of their own roots. Some of that patrimony has been, so to speak, spoon fed back to them by men such as this - for better or for worse. In this case, the scholars bear a deadly burden of responsibility, a great deal more power than is healthy for one group of rational beings to wield over another… but I must keep my focus on the present moment, where it belongs.

"So," my new acquaintance proposes, baldly, "You gonna let me in there or what?"

I bow. Halfway. A gift from the Force is still a gift and must be acknowledged. I _did_ learn a few things, in the course of twelve years' apprenticeship, and this is one of them. Every sentient is valuable and useful.

Even the ones that expectorate reeking gobs of half-masticated bacci in public.

In this, as in so many things, much depends on one's point of view.


	18. Chapter 18

**Inheritance**

* * *

18.

The Feorian chieftain and elders favor a long-handled hashka pipe as ceremonial seal upon the proceedings. The delicately crafted clay is passed hand to hand, the small bowl sending up a blue trail of grassy, sweet smoke which gathers among the slanted ceiling rafters and drifts out the central chimney opening. The planetary security officer and the Galactic Reservations inspector wrinkle their noses at the custom, producing murmurs of discontent among the gathered villagers. I, of course, accept out of diplomatic necessity. These men see only a mild narcotic. I see a sacred ritual signifying vital trust. There is not time to haggle over the niceties.

Inhale but shallowly, release through the nostrils, and allow the Force to purge away any unwanted effects. I learned how long ago. It's not a matter for concern.

The chieftain nods in approval. I sense a pair of very young and astonished eyes resting upon me with a potent blend of shock and awe-struck admiration. I squint balefully into the dark recess beneath the bench across the way, but Skywalker does not emerge from his hiding place. There must be at least one other with him – likely a Feorian youth, eager to know what his elders make of this _ jabuur-weki _ phenomenon.

I'll deal with them later.

"The victims appear to be in a catatonic state – almost complete cessation of cognitive and higher-level brain functions. I would surmise – based on initial scans – that they have sustained sudden and significant electro-magnetic radiation damage to the brain and central nervous system." The medical examiner from the next inhabited system provides this information with professional detachment. It is clear the Feorians understand not a word of it.

The chieftain shakes his staff at him. "The _jabuur-weki_ hath struck them down! Rebels and blasphemers, all of them… and this is their punishment. Taken, their souls have been, because impure they were. Full of dangerous and twisted thoughts, corruptions of the old ways."

The security officers are diligently recording every word on their data-pads. "So the victims shared a common, ah, political persuasion or religious view?"

One of the oldest Feorians leans forward, pupils hugely dilated. "Eager to abandon their heritage, the young troublemakers are. Discontent with freedom. They no longer wish to be Feorian."

"If you will forgive my asking," I interrupt, "How many of you truly remember the ancient Feorian customs yourselves? When you speak of tradition, are you not referring to a set of abstract ideas?"

There is an unobtrusive lurker present at this convocation, a round-shouldered fellow with a sharp face and calculating eyes.. He coughs gently, drawing attention to himself where he hunches in a dark corner, looking a bit green about the gills. The smoke is thick by now.

"Excuse me," this person murmurs, in an oily undertone, "But years and years of painstaking research have gone into the reconstruction of the Feorian culture –"

"Exactly." I don't enjoy sophistical byplay. "Perhaps the younger members of the tribe simply wish to be part of that reconstruction process." This is a common enough problem, a textbook case study for a basic diplomacy course. The intelligentsia, the established authorities, and the upcoming youth movement are all represented here, accurately playing their roles. The only loose cannon is this _jabuur-weki_ itself.

My words cause a minor uproar, in which the scholar and the chieftain shout hoarsely at each other, while the off-planet inspector and the police look on nervously, glancing my way once or twice as though they expect a demonstration of lightsaber technique any second.

Don't count on it, my friends. This is a petty tempest, at best. In the chaos, I think I can hear the soft choking staccato of a suppressed cough. Serve the little rapscallion right. Eavesdropping is not acceptable behavior for a Padawan, any more than unauthorized scavenging in junk piles. He'll just have to deal with the consequences.

Eventually, a tenuous order is restored.

"Accept the judgement of the _jabuur-weki,_ we do," the chieftain asserts, in his wheezing voice. "Your aid is not needed." And in this dismissal he includes all present except his own people, and – I notice – myself. He waves an age-spotted hand, fussily. "Go, go, go. Our own affair, it is. A spectacle we are not."

The inspector from the Galactic Reserve Foundation finally pipes up. "But you have agreed to allow external observers and visitors, as one of the conditions of your land grant," he protests, almost petulantly. "And this creature or phantom poses a serious impediment to tourism."

I wonder exactly how much the Foundation charges for educational tours of the village – or what percent of solicited donations it skims off the top? Corruption in this day and age is measured in degree, not in kind – any more exacting standard would pave a smooth path to cynical despair. I'll have Jocasta Nu look into it later. Our beloved Temple archivist will find the question intriguing.

The police still haven't said a word, and one penetrating look at their head officer confirms my suspicion that they desperately hope I will take the investigation off their hands. I can't blame them.

"The Jedi Council's involvement has not been officially requested," I point out.

"Your help, will we accept, lord Jedi," the chieftain nods, his eyes gleaming dully in the low light.

"Not lord. We come to serve."

He wags his head back and forth sagely, gaunt face swaying atop his scrawny elongated neck. "Yes," he continues. "Stop these rebels and fools from endangering our people – this you must do. Do this, and placate the jabuur-weki. This be the business of the Feorians. Not thine." He glares at the outsiders, encompassing them all in a single withering disdain.

The scholar leaps to his feet. "Your tribe called the authorites in! You contacted the media! You can't have it both ways!"

"Summon _thee_ we did not," another elder chuffs.

The medical examiner timidly clears his throat. "Ah… is it possible your rebellious youth were the ones to invite outside help?"

And that- while obviously the truth - incites another near riot. The meeting devolves into a writhing haze of blue smoke and gesticulating limbs. The Force is choppy with the befuddled mutual resentment of two dozen or so half-stupefied sentients, but I doubt any of them can do each other any real harm in their present condition. Already a few of the elders and one of the security officers has taken a seat again, lapsing into sullen reticence.

I rise, and stretch. The hashka leaves a stale odor in the air. Four quick strides bring me to the opposite row of benches, and a moment's fishing with one hand lands me a rare catch. I haul Skywalker out by the scruff of his young neck.

"Sorry sorry sorry," the poor creature moans. He looks acutely ill, and I can sense that we need to make a quick exit.

A dark shadow scrambling underfoot tells me that his accomplice is a Feorian youth of about the same age. I drag the Padawan out the longhouse door and deposit him on the other side of the threshold, just as Kenobi comes sauntering back into the village boundaries.

The fresh air seems to do the boy good. He's prodigiously sick all over his own boots, and I decide that this is now his master's problem.

Rank has its privileges, after all.


	19. Chapter 19

**Inheritance**

* * *

19.

I want my mom.

I really want her to come and take care of me. I feel real _hoocha_ sick, all dizzy and twisty and messed up inside. If mom were here she would tell me why people do stupid bugsquat like smoke piima weed and hashka and other gross stuff, and she would remind me how she never used to let me go around the Hutt lounges in Mos Espa and she would rub my back and give me some honey-tea to drink and hug me until I felt better.

Oh, _poodoo._ I'm gonna be sick again. The whole world smells like hashka now. "Master! Wait, master, I'm gonna –"

But Obi-Wan _never_ listens. I kinda spattered everywhere that time only its not my fault cause he's just pulling me along by the hand and I can't help it if my stomach really doesn't like hashka and how come he didn't tell me to stay outta there?

"You didn't say anything!" I shout at him. It feels kinda good to shout. It makes my head hurt less.

"That can be remedied," he says, with his voice all flat, but not flat in the funny way – more flat like a really sharp knife is flat where the blade is all thin. And now we're inside the guest house and _whoa!_ He's stripping off my nasty wet clothes and chucking them in a corner.

Obi-Wan never throws anything. Except other people, in the dojo- or if they're bad people, then he can chuck stuff all over the place but that's different.

"Anakin."

I can't really stand up so I fall down. Everything is spinning and my stomach is cramping and my head hurts a lot. _Boshuda. _ I hate hashka. I think I'm gonna die and I didn't even get to see all the planets or be a Jedi or _anything._

"I think you're allergic to whatever they were smoking, but you're not going to die. Hold on, Anakin, just a moment."

It's super freezing cold and I'm shivering real bad and my head really really hurts. I want my mom. Now Master has his own cloak all wrapped around me and I'm in the lumpy Feorian bed with all the blankets and I think I smell a fire where Master might be making it. If mom were here she would kiss me and sing a song. And she wouldn't be mad.

Master's mad. I can tell. Just like he was when I went into the Dumps and then the Council busted him instead of me. Maybe they're going to bust him for hiding in the longhouse, too. Maybe that's why he's so mad.

He's real quiet and I think he's gonna yell like Watto used to do all the time. Except he doesn't yell. He just sits next to me and I squish open one eye and look at him to see if he's gonna start yelling yet. And his eyes are really really frowning, all intense but actually he's kinda biting his lower lip. He looks a little worried or confused, actually.

"I want my mom," I tell him.

"You don't need your mother, Anakin," he says, all quiet. "You need the Force – if you reach for it, it can –"

"Shut up!" It hurts to shout that loud but I _need_ my mom not the stupid Force and not Master Obi-Wan and his stupid lectures and the stupid Temple kids laughing at me and the stupid Council punishing all the wrong people and the whole stupid galaxy that lets good people be slaves and not get freed! "That's kriffing _boshuda!_ I want my _mom_!"

He stands up and lets his breath out all slow and even. I feel kinda woozy again. I don't really want him to go away, 'cause what if I'm sick again? What if the _jabuur-weki's_ gonna come for me and suck out my soul too and stuff? What if he leaves and never comes back and I'm stranded here with the Feorians forever like I'm still a slave?

"Are you gonna maroon me on that asteroid now?" I ask him.

Now his eyebrows go up, and for just a moment I think he might actually smile again. That would be nice. But he sort of shoves it down inside himself again. "No, my young friend, I'm afraid you are stuck with me for a _very long time."_

And the way he says that makes it sound like it might be fine with him, like he actually would _blitz _ the _jabuur-weki_ if it tried to come in here, cut it in half prob'ly with his lightsaber or throw it into a wall or something. That would be wizard and thinking about it makes my head hurt less. "Okay," I say. "I care about you too."

He sort of opens his mouth and then shuts it without saying anything, but he also sits down again, and crosses his arms over his chest. It's pretty cold in here and he gave me his cloak and all. "Eavesdropping is not appropriate," he tells me. "And in this case dangerous." Then he runs a hand over his face like he's really tired.

"I know. I know, master. Really. It was Lorra's idea, though, 'cause we wanted to know what the elders would say. Cause Lorra's brother is the leader of the other guys – the young ones they were talking about, and he was afraid maybe the elders had found out about their secret cave and all and maybe you and Master Windu would shut it down or show the outsiders or something and that would be real bad. And also Lorra knows all about the _jabuur-weki,_ more than the chieftain even 'cause his brother's a genius and him and his friends are the ones that it's after and so they should know."

Master's just staring at me. I think he forgot about being mad. He'll remember later - he never really forgets anything except the stuff I think he forgets on purpose 'cause it bugs him.

"What?" he says. "Anakin – what are you talking about?"

"I talked to all the village kids," I explain. "And they told me all this stuff about the chief and Lorra's brother and the cave and the _jabuur-weki_ and all. I was gonna tell you, only we decided to hide in the longhouse first and then everybody started smoking on that pipe and then I got kinda sick. But I know all about it from them and also I know some of the _jabuur-weki_ song, the one that the Feorians made up a long time ago. The _jabuur-weki_ comes from their homeworld, actually. I guess it followed them around all this time... Is that possible, do you think? When you and Master Qui-Gon rescued them the first time, do you think there was a _jabuur-weki_ creeping around secretly or something?"

Master sort of stares at the wall now, like he might burn a hole in it with his eyes. And he rubs at his chin sort of like this, like he has a beard. He kinda does – there's little tiny hairs there now cause we didn't really have time to wash up or anything this morning.

"From a certain point of view, perhaps," he decides. "Tell me more."

So I do.


	20. Chapter 20

**Inheritance**

* * *

20.

As a youngling, I learned an aphorism or a mantra for every situation, every possible turn of fate's wheel. The Jedi tradition is millenia old, and like a broad and stately river, that tradition has deposited a rich sediment of collective wisdom along its meandering banks. All we who grew into first maturity within the sheltering confines of the Temple are carried along in those same currents, swept up against those same shores as our forebears, re-learning their same lessons, often repeating their very words, albeit in a chorus of lisping and innocent voices. It is a boundless estate, bequeathed without attachment to numberless heirs. But here, it would seem, that river has not yet carved its channel.

Anakin Skywalker is something _novel,_ an unprecedented event. Even Quinlan Vos – Force preserve us – is staid and ordinary by comparison to this upstart miracle from the Outer Rim, this unparalleled genius, this _imbalance_ who will bring balance. There has never been anything like him. There may never be again. The tradition has not yet encompassed his like; and there are days when I begin to think that history's floodwaters may rise at his beck and call, cover th eentire galaxy in an unprecedented deluge and obliterate all that has come before. He is _unique._

And so, where he is concerned, I have no timeless adage to quote.

Not that I couldn't provide a few _pointed_ extemporaneous remarks on the subject, myself. But that would hardly qualify as serene Jedi insight, now would it?

"Lord Jedi! Lord Jedi!"

Oh dear. This particular misnomer is growing tiresome, almost as tiresome as the perpetual race to outstrip my Padawan's foolishness. But I am intrigued – for she is the first Feorian _woman _I have seen since we arrived. And she is waving me into the warmth of her lowly dwelling, both scrawny arms extended in the universal gesture of welcome.

And the Force, however disturbed, is chiming in silent accord. So I turn, and approach the Feorian matron, and dip my head as we pass beneath the low-set lintel of her squat doorway.

Inside, the mud-packed walls have captured the warmth of the central oven – little more than an enclosed fire pit built of stone and brick. The low roof seems to brood over us like a mother bird over its eggs, an almost smothering proximity. And there are more than a dozen of the village's older females gathered here, cooking implements and the tools of some odd fiber-craft I do not recognize clasped between their knobby fingers, pieces of half-finished cloth draped over knees here and there, the scent of baking grain thick in the close air. They are every one of them staring at me with open admiration.

A deep bow covers my confusion. I hope.

"Tis he! Tis the same!" my hostess informs the beaming crowd. "'Tis the young Jedi lord, from Marshak's vile fortress! He who saved us with the other! He is come to visit us again, you see?"

Oh. _Oh._ Well. I can't really deny being myself, can I? "Yes. It is a great honor to be welcomed by you again," I reply. There _are_ standard responses for this sort of thing – diplomatic protocol and precedent amply cover such entanglements. "We come to serve."

A few of the others have drawn near, and more than one pair of arthritic hands is fiddling with my cloak hems.

"I remember thee!" one of the crones smiles, her face rumpling into a wealth of fine, papery lines. "Thy name, too! Pada-Wan."

Close enough, I suppose. I don't waste energy making burdensome corrections.

"Where is the other Jedi? The tall one? How we loved him!"

"He is …one with the Force." I cannot bring myself to say more, not in the face of such enthusiasm, the spectacle of such a rare joy.

"You see! The other lord Jedi speaks with the Force itself, in council like an elder. He is a noble one. Thou must love him as we do, so much!"

It is uncommonly hot beneath the low rafters, is it not? Uncomfortably so.

The original Feorian is now bustling forward, pushing aside some of her less timid sisters. In her arms she bears a long swath of decorated cloth, a textured stretch of fibers, twisted and knotted and interwoven in a complex pattern. I know from a cursory study of Feorian culture that this is a traditional art-form, a semi-sacred artifact. She proffers it to me, both thin arms outstretched in solemn ritual.

"For he – Qui-Jinn. Thou will give it to him, from us, yes? Five years have we woven it, and the story of our gratitude is knotted in to each row. This is the ancient way…. but also," and here she leans closer, conspiratorial, "New craft we have put into it. For our new life. A different life now, one that Qui-Jinn earned for us."

The cloth is much heavier than I would have guessed, but soft as down. Its thickly corded surface drapes over my hands, the twined fibers painstakingly bound, each by hand, a soft learner's plait. Much hard work has gone into the weaving. I should know.

"Thou will take it to him for us?"

_Jedi do not accept gifts. I am honored by your generosity, but our Code forbids the acceptance of such offerings. To have served is sufficient reward for us; there is no need for such gifts and honors. I –_

But the words stick in my throat. They gaze, expectant. And I know full well that Qui-Gon Jinn would have graciously, and without hesitation, accepted this communal work of their hearts and hands. And I would have then upbraided him for his violation of the precepts. And he would have then have commanded that the gorgeous blanket – for that is what it is – pass into my ownership, and use, upon pain of his severe displeasure. And I would have objected stridently to the object lesson. And he would have smiled in that calm, infuriating way of his, and informed me that I still had much to learn.

I do not deny it.

"I cannot take this gift to him; he is with the Force," I repeat. Deep centering breath. "Dead."

They brush this aside. "Then thou will take it for him and keep it until thou see him again. For great friends thou were with him, yes?"

The air in the very small house is suffocating. There are far too many bodies jammed into such a close space. "I… " -_For stars' sake, Kenobi, get a grip -_ " …We are both honored by your gift, and by the friendship of the Feorian people."

They nod and mutter and beam upon me, well satisfied. The bestower of this incomparable treasure pats my elbow soothingly. "Sent a nursemaid to thy boy, we did. Better will she know how to soothe a child than thee, Pada-Wan."

Good. I hope she is a purveyor of nasty-tasting medicines. "Thank you," I say, working my way toward the exit, slipping backward as the throng presses forward, bowing upon the threshold. The chill air behind me sets my spine thrilling. It is _freezing_ out on the tundra. It feels … present. Attention-riveting.

I make my escape, still holding the Feorian women's gift, a loving encomium upon my former master's virtues, wrought by some of his favorite pathetic life forms.

And it occurs to me, as I stride back toward the guest-hut, the frigid air burning harshly in my nose and throat, that I never once gave him anything of such value.

Except perhaps his dying wish.

It is _blasted_ cold out here in the waste.


	21. Chapter 21

**Inheritance**

* * *

21.

The fruitless deliberations in the Feorian longhouse continued until nearly noon-hour, at which time the amassed forces of the media and the local bureaucracy beat a hasty, if disappointed, retreat. The Feorian elders and their chieftain have now dispersed into the village to partake of the communal midday meal. I politely declined the invitation to join them. I have to admit that I don't quite have the stomach for it, after four hours' confinement in their smoke filled meeting house.

The freezing temperature outdoors is a welcome refreshment, however. A vigorous walk about the perimeter should serve to clear my head, dispelling any small lingering effects of the Feorians' pipeweed, and purging away some of the irritation inevitably associated with such an unproductive and quarrelsome convocation. Old Yoda is not here to take a whack at my shins, so I'll say what I would not dare so much as think privately in Council: there are times when diplomacy is for droids.

And here, emerging from the guest house where we sheltered last night, is Kenobi. He alters course when he spots me, and heads in my direction at a brisk clip. He's cloakless, I notice. Probably cast aside his robe and forgot to retrieve it afterwards, an ingrained habit he should long ago have outgrown. I forbear from making any comment. Let the icy air play the mentor's role for me. The Force teaches its own lessons, more often than not.

"I take it your Padawan will recover?" I inquire when he draws nigh.

"He'll live," Kenobi affirms with a wry twist of the mouth. His gaze drops to the frost-strewn rock between our boots. "I apologize for his breach of conduct, master. Clearly, I have not –"

"Obi-Wan."

He glances up, startled by the familiarity.

"I'm here on leave," I point out. "Let's not mar the perfection of the trip by inserting another unpleasant Council session into its midst."

For a long moment, blue eyes study my face with a guarded intensity, as though suspicious the humor might be some kind of trap, the sort of thing Yoda might employ to catch a student off guard.

Frankly, that's not my style.

"So…" he cautiously responds, exhaling a small opaque white cloud, "We should find another means of settling the disciplinary issue?"

I shrug. "If that's how you insist upon framing it." There is a small patch of level ground not far from here, the perfect place. I nod meaningfully in its general direction. "Besides, it might help warm your blood."

He bows, a graceful concession to my superior rank; but when his eyes meet mine again the careful, self-deprecating softness has fled, to be replaced by a spark of combative mischief. Kenobi loves saber-play like a drunk loves his drink. He's completely powerless to resist any invitation to spar.

I chuckle. He must have kept old Qui-Gon light on his feet, that much is certain.

I toss my own cloak over a jutting corner of glacial rock as we cross over to our chosen arena. Fierfek! It's _cold_ out here. I rub a hand over my smooth pate, perhaps a trifle ruefully. But it's no matter. I have a sparring match to win, and something tells me it won't be a disappointing one. I unclip my saber and smile at the way the violet blade growls low, a shimmering corona of mist forming along the edges where the plasma evaporates ambient moisture. Kenobi's saber thrums an octave higher, as he sweeps it round in an ostentatious triple salute and ends high, in the Soresu aggressive opening stance. Oh yes – I've made a wise choice of traveling partners. If only there weren't trouble brewing here on Outer Gola, we two could spend a good deal of our time here in such sober and studious pursuits.

"Very well," I instruct. "Let's see how that Soresu variant of yours measures up to Vapaad."

If I expected some kind of humble brush aside, I was mistaken. This man is a different _being_ once the gauntlet has been thrown down. I might have to rethink my plans to send him to the Chandrilan Unity Convention. The matriarchs there are staunch pacifists who abhor all manifestations of violence - and as Kenobi launches into his first blistering offensive, I have to admit that although Jedi do not love violence per se, my young friend here is clearly willing to make a pointed exception on behalf of _certain_ forms of it.

For Force's sake, did he almost land a strike on my _sword arm?_

Something will have to be done about that.

Vapaad is something I have spent decades perfecting. It is more than art. It is meditation, and vital discipline. I do not share it with many, even in play, for it is a dangerous flirtation with the edge of darkness, and I have sworn to always respect this fact. Every one of us, I learned long ago, and in great anguish, carries a seed of darkness within. There is no expunging it utterly. There is no escaping it. And there is no denying it, without bitter consequence. Mine I have faced, and this is its _taming. _ Vapaad is the subjection of the Dark, its chaining and servitude, its defeat and bondage. Vapaad is Darkness turned outward against itself, brought to its knees and transformed to the wrath of Light.

Some of the other masters of the Order do not like it. I know this. Yan Dooku holds it in contempt, and he is a peerless swordsman.

They are entitled to their own wisdom.

I am entitled to mine.

Now, as I unleash it against Kenobi, I have a chance to observe the first beginnings of _his_ own unique style, his own saber-meditation. He'll never admit that there is such a thing, but that is _not_ pure Soresu. I see Ataru holdovers, and a bit of seemingly extraneous showmanship. I might be tempted to criticize him for such a waste of energy – but I'll admit that his first near-hit was a result of my own distraction. That flashy, adder-fast flourish, that unnecessary reverse-grip… it's all an elaborate deception, a lightning storm of illusion and irony, a veil over his true intentions. The actual strike came fast, and clean, almost before I anticipated it. Clever. Beautiful.

If I had to describe his style, I would say it is Soresu evolving into an expression of the individual. Soresu with an attitude. Defense with deadly intent. The eye of the storm, indeed – an eye glinting with defiance, a laughing taunt in the face of darkness.

I almost laugh myself.

Then I win, and decisively. After all, I have thirty years' superior experience on my side. And Kenobi is not quite a match for Vapaad.

At least, not _yet._ And I would not say that of many.

My blade snaps back into its hilt, and I offer my vanquished opponent a hand up, summoning his fallen saber into my hand at the same time. I return it to its owner with a bow. That was an excellent match, a true pleasure.

Kenobi dusts himself off with a small, ironic grin, the ferocious, wicked delectation muted now, smoothed back into proper Jedi calm, as though the battle never occurred. "Lesson learned, " he says, returning the courtesy.

"Now you can pass the lesson on to your own Padawan," I advise. "It's good to have a few such tricks up your sleeve at any time."

We head back to the village at a measured pace. The air does not seem so frigid. The frost crunches under our boots in even rhythm. "Speaking of Anakin," he begins, squinting in the glare beneath the featureless grey sky, "He has done some investigating of his own. Besides the longhouse debacle."

"Oh?" So the imp has weaseled his way into a useful alliance… perhaps with that young Feorian scamp I found hiding with him. "And..?"

"Well," Kenobi informs me. "I think we should allow him to… continue."

And he fills me in on the details as we make our way back to the village, and our waiting hosts.


	22. Chapter 22

**Inheritance**

* * *

22.

Whoa. This is _intense._

I feel a lot better now that Ruru - that's the nice Feorian woman who reminds me kinda of ol' Jira in the marketplace in Mos Espa – now that she gave me some of her remedy and sang the _jabuur-weki _ song for me a few times.

It used to live in a forest place all full of mome raths and other stuff, Jub birds and bander-somethings, so I don't think it's very happy about being here in Outer Gola where it's all frozen. Maybe that's why it's so mad and all.

Speaking of which, Master's in a funny mood now. He told me it was _a prudent idea_ to meet Lorra's brother and see more about the cave and stuff. Like he wasn't mad anymore. And the Feorians gave him this _chubazzi_ blanket thing, that they made specially for Master Qui-Gon because he freed them. 'Cept Obi-Wan will prob'ly just give it to the Archives. That's what happens every time we end up with something really good. 'Cause of "no possessions" and stuff. I wish I coulda given Master Qui-Gon something, too, to tell him thank you. I shoulda made him a japor snippet like the one I carved for Padme, only I didn't think Jedi needed luck. I guess I was wrong.

When Master Qui-Gon came to Tatooine it was like a dream I had was suddenly coming true, like the whole thing was too good to even be real. And when he died it felt like waking up, like it wasn't gonna come true after all. I didn't know what was going to happen to me then. But Master promised that he would teach me, and that I would be a Jedi. He _promised._ Obi-Wan isn't exactly a dream come true - no offense. He's more like real life, the way it surprises you, like you would never have thought of that happening but it does anyway. And it's sorta better than what you dreamed. Maybe.

Anyway, Lorra and me went to his house after supper, which I _no way_ was gonna eat except for maybe just a little bit of bread, and I got to meet his brother. Yonso is really, really tall and skinny and kinda clumsy the way he moves, sorta like JarJar used to be. Only I think Yonso might be a _whole_ lot smarter than JarJar - no offense. I just mean, Yonso's wicked smart, the way he says stuff and the other Feorians really look up to him. All the young, smart ones I mean.

I'm gonna be like him when I grow up.

Him and his friends and Lorra and me had a secret meeting, in the house when nobody else was there. And Lorra said that I was a _Jedi Knight._ So then they were all kinda impressed and let me stay for the meeting. And I guess Lorra got to stay too 'cause now he's like my _Padawan._

I really like the Feorians.

They get it. They say that what's the point of being free if you don't have a choice? Some of them don't want to live on Gola anymore, not with the other Feorians. Yonso wants to go to universe-city, which sounds like a school or something, like maybe the pilot academy over by Anchorhead only bigger and stuff. Sorta like the Temple except with less rules and you don't call the teachers _master._ Yonso says that he calls no man master.

I like him a lot, too.

But some of the other guys, the old geezer ones I mean, don't like him so much. They think he's going to _corrupt the youth._ That's like what Master Obi-Wan said about Garen Muln, that he's a_ malign influence_ 'cause he told me all those funny stories. I'm kinda glad I didn't mention _all_ the ones he told me. Some of them were pretty _wizard,_ especially the one where Master tried to do a mind trick on Madame Nu and got in _hoocha_ big trouble for it. I guess Master Yoda actually made him cry, that's what Master Muln _said, _ but it's hard to believe.

Yonso wouldn't have cared what Master Yoda thought or anything. He's _tough._ He's like that spacer that used to come into Watto's shop, the one that told me about the angels on Iego and all. Watto used get nervous about selling him parts that we scavenged without permission and all, 'cause of the intersystem security patrols and stuff, but that guy always said he _didn't give a flaming kriff about no damn regulations._

He had a blaster, not a lightsaber, but he was _rugged._

So then Yonso and his friends took us to their secret cave and here we are now. It's totally _intense._ There's this place in the ground where a giant rock is all stuck like it fell outta space here, and it looks like it's just jammed into the ground, but underneath way deep in the shadow there's this opening and you can crawl in there.

And guess what? This whole place is _full_ of crystals. Master says there's a special planet with crystal caves and all and we have to go there when I make my first lightsaber. I wonder if this is kinda the same. The Force feels _really_ weird down here and I think maybe I shoulda brought Master with me, if I could get Yonso and these guys to like him. They're pretty suspicious about Master Windu 'cause he was hanging out with the chieftain and he's old and all. But Master's about the same age as Yonso, really, and he's really smart too, even though he's sorta the opposite, always going on about tradition and stuff.

I don't know.

Lorra's tugging on my clothes, the new Feorian ones they gave me that itch. "What?"

"This is the _jabuur-weki's_ lair," he whispers, with his eyes all bugging out. "They come here all the time! We should go back."

"_You_ go back," I tell him. I'm a Jedi, and Jedi are never scared. I want to see what's so important down here.

So I drag Lorra along with me and follow the Feorian guys deeper and deeper into the cave. Hopefully the _jabuur-weki_ isn't here right now.

So then we have to squeeze through this other opening and there's another cave, really super bigger and there's even more crystals down here. And the Feorians have some rickety scaffolds set up, and some tools and stuff. I think they're mining. Maybe these crystals are worth something, like buried treasure. That would be wizard, 'cause money can solve a whole lotta problems. When I won the podrace, I got a bunch of money. Enough to help mom a whole lot even if Watto wouldn't let her buy her own freedom. What a _pizzhmah_.So I guess being rich doesn't really solve all the galaxy's problems. That's what lightsabers are for, I guess.

"Promise!" Yonso says, all loud. "Swear that thou will tell none of this."

Whoa. He's pretty serious. "What about my master?" I mean, I also promised that I would never lie to him or anything. And he promised the same thing to me.

He makes this rude snorting sound in his throat. "Thou art a _Jedi, _ and yet you are not free? _We_ call no man master."

My stomach feels kinda twisty again, like I might be sick. Yonso is staring at me really hard, waiting for my answer, like all the Councilors did in the Temple that first night, when they made me take all their tests. I think Yonso's testing me now. Master would say that I should not _compromise my honor._ But sometimes Obi-Wan says things that are true but only depending how you look at it. So… maybe I could do the same? 'Cause that's okay for a Jedi. It's not really lying.

"I promise I won't tell him anything about this place," I say. That's pretty good. I think Master would be proud. See?

"Good," Yonso says. "Those who broke this oath have all perished. The _jabuur-weki_ has taken their souls for betraying its secret. Now come."

So then we go even _deeper,_ but all I can think about is his words and my stomach is really jiggery all of a sudden. Even though I'm a Jedi.


	23. Chapter 23

**Author's Note:**

An observant reader and fellow author has asked why Dooku's name in this story is given as Yan (pronounced "yawn") rather than Octavius. Ah, but of course there is a reason.

Dooku's given name at birth was Octavius Dooku of Serreno. However, Jedi customarily do not retain names which are significant of rank and superior social status, and "Octavius" denotes that Dooku is the eighth successor in the Serrenoan patrilineal dynasty of his homeworld. As a young man, he therefore chose the humble name Yan instead. A bit of authorial irony, perhaps: I find it amusing that just as Luke does actually signify "Light" (or "bringer of Light", depending which etymology you consult) the real name Yan (along with Ian, Ewan, Euan, Sean, Juan, John, Jon, Ivan, Giovanni, Johann, and all the other derivatives of the name) means "God is _gracious_." Dooku is nothing if not gracious, in accord with his aristocratic temperament. It is also fun to note that "-yan" is (a Western transliteration of ) the Japanese suffix indicating familiarity or a humble status, rather the opposite of "-san" which denotes respect and formality.

Naturally, when Dooku later renounced the Jedi path and took up his hereditary rank and wealth, as Count of Serreno and later as lord of the Sith, he reverted the more splendid and august title of Octavius, and of course he was appropriately dubbed Darth Tyrannus by his Sith mentor. So you see, there is much in a name – in this case, the complex history of an individual

Even if "it sounds like Yam." What's wrong with yams? They are nutritious and have a lovely color. Thank you for reading, and for all the lovely feedback!

-r.b.

* * *

**Inheritance**

23.

"What do you mean, you can't _say anything?"_

Force help me, but Anakin must be the single most challenging Jedi Padawan ever to join the ranks of the Order. He eagerly accepted the commission to broaden his acquaintance with the young Feorians, clearly in a spirit to make amends for his most recent transgression – and yet now, upon his triumphant return from his first solo reconnaissance assignment, he flat out refuses to make a report.

"I'm sorry, master – really. Only I promised."

Oh, dear. Promises are a dangerous thing, young one. Be careful not to make them lightly. "You promised not to tell me what you saw?"

He nods, looking distinctly nervous. His mouth twists to one side, and his snub nose scrunches upward in a peculiar mannerism all his own. "Um… sorta. I told Yonso I wouldn't tell you a word, actually. 'Cause he wasn't going to let me come any further unless I swore and stuff. And a Jedi keeps his word."

Well, then. "A Jedi does keep his word," I agree, reluctantly. "Which is why he does not give it without due consideration. Your duty is to the mission – in this case, to find out what you could and to inform me, or Master Windu."

"I know," he replies, squirming in place a little. "So I kinda tried to do it both ways, like you do sometimes. You know, when you make people think something but it depends on your point of view really."

Why do I suddenly feel so uneasy? _Example teaches what words cannot. _I choose not to dwell on the obvious implications of his statement. "What do you mean?"

"Well…." My Padawan informs me, hesitantly. "I swore that I wouldn't tell you anything. So… maybe… I could _show_ you instead?"

"I don't think it would be wise to return to wherever you've been so soon," I answer. The boy is inexperienced, and given to brash action. If the youthful insurgency has a secret, it is unlikely to be left without a guard or sentinel of some kind. I can sense the suspicion in this community, like a thick humidity in the air.

"No," Anakin pouts. "I mean, the other way. Like that game we played before. You know, where we practiced showing memories and stuff."

The visualization exercise? Yes, I suppose that might work. Technically, it doesn't involve _telling_ anything – sharing experiences through a Force bond is more in the nature of immediate perception than conscious communication. But – "I was the one projecting. Do you think you can do the same? We never practiced –"

"I can do it," he pipes up, as though I have suggested that he might not be able to walk a straight line or balance on one foot. "I didn't know why you made such a big deal about it the first time."

Oh, really? Might it be that it took me almost five years of intense practice with Qui-Gon to master the art? But I know better than to question him when he speaks with such brassy confidence. More than once, Anakin Skywalker has proved my dubiety unfounded, when it applies to his abilities. As I said, he is _unique._

"Very well. Show me, then - my casuistical, equivocating young Padawan."

A blank stare.

"Just show me." I spread my palms outward, and he shrugs, pressing his own much smaller hands against them. His fingers only reach halfway to the tips of mine, in a subtle irony; for surely it is I who feels dwarfed by his talent and potential? The Force can be cruel, if one is foolish enough to ponder its every nuance. Sometimes it is better to laugh graciously at the joke played upon oneself.

He closes his eyes and frowns, concentrating. The Force _surges_ at his command, an invisible vortex tugging at my mind. Anakin has power, but little control, and I perceive too late the pitfall of this arrangement. But I do need to see what he has discovered, and so – against my better judgement – I lower my mental shields, making myself passive to the shaping suggestion of his memories.

_A glacial rock, thrusting askew from the icy plains; a tunnel burrowing deep beneath it, into a natural crevass and cave system; glittering crystals – dactyl –like, familiar somehow; another passage, then another; mining equipment and primitive lights, tools; yet another opening, a dark and suffocating tunnel; and ultimately, a vast domed chamber, awash in subterranean pools, every glimmering surface reflecting the ithyll crystals, rank upon rank of them, a motherlode that must rival even the mines of the Bogden Abyss_,_ an incalculable fortune. The Feorian youth, their leader, his firebrand's speeches and his devotees' hot affirmation of the same. And all around, within the caves, deep and ominous, the disturbed Force. I am sick with it, like it might squeeze the very breath out of my body, a poisonous sludge creeping in my veins, a spreading flood of clotted fear…_

I recoil, on instinct, because _that_ was the Dark Side. Anakin cries out in pain, clutching his temples.

My own head must surely be splitting. That was unwise. I reach for his arm, apologetically. "Anakin. I'm sorry – forgive me. I should not have broken the connection so abruptly."

The poor creature is white. I ignore the tears welling in his eyes, and he swipes an arm across his face hastily, eradicating any trace of weakness.

"That was my fault," I reassure him. "I – I did not expect the caves to feel that way."

"'S okay," he mutters. "It was pretty _intense_ down there. It made me feel kinda woozy. Sort of like flying really fast – scared and excited all at once."

It did? Force, my head hurts. Should I be concerned that he finds the Dark intoxicating and terrifying at once? But why is that problematic? Is that not its very nature? I swallow, steadying my breath. "Anakin," I say, carefully. "Do you know what those crystals were? Do you understand the possible ramifications of this… secret trove?"

He shakes his head. "Well… it's good, right?" When I don't answer, he squints in confusion. "It's bad?" He asks. Then, "It's gonna make a lot of trouble, either way?"

You might say that again. And the _jabuur-weki_ remains…. elusive.

"I need to speak with Master Windu," I tell him, as gently as possible.

He still explodes. "You can't! He's on the cheiftain's side!"

He has much to learn. "As Jedi, we are not on _anyone's _ side," I remind him, sternly. "We are here to promote peace. And we must decide what is to be done."

"What about the _jabuur-weki?"_ he insists. "That cave is its lair. Yonso and Lorra both said so. It might get mad and kill more people if you do anything."

It might indeed – and it might indulge in another murderous spree even if we do nothing.

But in either case, one thing remains a constant in my mind: I have a very bad feeling about this.


	24. Chapter 24

**Inheritance**

* * *

24.

Anakin Skywalker has many yet-undiscovered talents. Here is one the Council has not yet observed: he is a talented ooz-ball player, even without any obvious use of the Force.

Look at him now – he's right at home amongst the grubby children of the galaxy's most pathetic life forms, running and leaping amid his rambunctious Feorian playmates as they rough-house their way across the squalid village courtyard. He's even clad in the same garments as they are – comfortable in rough-woven tatters and rags, as though these suit him better than traditional Jedi robes. His companions kick the stuffed animal skin with a certain unbridled savagery never seen in the Temple playrooms, even in the heat of a pitched scramball competition. Jedi younglings simply do not … shriek in such a manner. But then, none of our younglings have seen true deprivation. Not like these children can remember, or experience still. Suffering can infuse _play_ with an unwonted intensity, a desperate and defiant edge.

I watch the ooz-ball sail high, propelled by a fierce kick. It arcs gracefully down, in the direction of a doddering Feorian elder on the courtyard's outskirts. I turn the projectile out of its disastrous trajectory with a gentle nudge of the Force, and it misses the poor fellow's head by a half meter, thudding onto the frozen soil behind him. He shuffles onward, equally oblivious both to the near-catastrophe, and to the unruly mob of contestants that surges forward to retrieve their plaything.

"I gave him permission to participate in their sport," Kenobi explains, from behind me. Am I mistaken, or does his voice convey a certain defensive tension, as well?

I turn. Does he really suppose me as dour as all that? "I presumed you warned him that an ostentatious display of his gifts might not endear him to the others?"

The taut set of his shoulders slackens, a bit. "I don't need to. He's well accustomed to keeping his Force abilities _muted. _ On Tatooine, I think he blended in quite well with the other… under-privileged younglings. I'm afraid he's more at ease with _these_ children than his peers at the Temple."

I nod, drawing back a pace into the warmth of our shelter. "You've been thinking about his early life."

"Somewhat."

I've waited for this opportunity patiently, and I am not about to let it go to waste. "What insight have you gained?" I ask, cautious not to seem inquisitorial. Nevertheless, I can see by his wary expression that the question is too vague, too much like a test, so I add, "Your Padawan is an exception, even within the Order. Is there some insight you have that might help the Council better judge his actions – or perhaps your own?"

Wariness is instantly replaced by alarm, and then smoothed into a determined calm. "Well," Kenobi hedges for a moment. "I think… perhaps… that during his years as a slave, Anakin came to look upon his inborn connection to the Force as a means of thwarting oppression, of circumventing rules and restrictions. He sees it as an inalienable freedom." He pauses, gauging my reaction.

"Which it is," I answer.

His mouth twists wryly. "From a certain point of view. But ever since he arrived at the Temple, I – and all his other instructors and even his peers- have been telling him that such a gift is necessarily bound to rules and limits; that his inborn ability is an obligation to serve rather than an absolution from all servitude."

I see, better than my young friend might suspect. But I let him struggle onward, clarifying the situation for both of us at once.

"He finds it difficult to reconcile the two viewpoints, master." Kenobi scowls out across the frozen square, watching the ooz-ball match unfold.

"And you find it difficult to explain the matter to him?" I guess.

"Yes," he ruefully admits. "Though I'm hoarse with trying."

I can't suppress my amusement. I'm sure he _has_ put his utmost into expounding the seeming paradox; and by his _utmost_ I mean an impressive display of eloquence. Kenobi is an accomplished orator.

"Some things come only with maturity, Obi-Wan," I assure him, laying my hand on his shoulder. "You might do better to save the philosophy lesson until your Padawan is a bit older."

Now his brows pull together expressively. "Qui-Gon talked to me all the time."

I nearly laugh aloud. "_You_ talked to Qui-Gon all the time, and he had the good sense to answer. But you are a thinker. Skywalker… I'd say he's more of a doer. A good mentor shapes his teaching to fit the learner. In his case, concrete example might go further than a lecture."

"Oh….. yes." A small, embarrassed pause. "Thank you, master."

"My pleasure," I respond. "And I'll keep in mind what you've told me, next time the Council has to haul the pair of you up for reprimand. Your situation calls for certain.. nuances of judgment."

He finally meets my gaze with an open expression. There might even be a flicker of long-buried hope in his eyes, the return of a spark I haven't seen since Qui-Gon's death. "In our case, concrete example might go further than a lecture?" he offers, dead-pan.

I keep a sabaac face. "We'll see about that."

Outside, the ooz-ball competition devolves into a three-way scuffle, some common play-yard dispute with the usual complement of shouted insults and fisticuffs. Skywalker seems to be in the thick of it. Kenobi hesitates, taking a step toward the threshold and then stopping as though he has re-considered his plan to intervene. Eventually the Skywalker boy pummels one or two hotheads to the ground and barks some curt orders at the remaining players, who subside into sullen compliance and reform themselves into squads for the next round.

"His peace-keeping style is certainly _straightforward,"_ I observe, casually.

"We have been working on diplomacy, master, and –"

"I didn't say that was a bad thing." I favor the direct approach myself.

"Ah." My young companion imbues that single syllable with a world of textured meanings.

I don't need his irony. "Let's discuss this cave your apprentice discovered," I suggest. The shelter's primitive door shuts out some of the cold seeping in from outside, as well as the unbridled shrieks and cheers from the rowdy ball game.

"Yes, master." Kenobi levitates a thin palette off the room's rickety furniture onto the floor, and settles himself cross-legged upon it. "It seems to be a locus of Dark energy."

"And incalculable wealth," I concur, sitting opposite. Some might say there is little ultimate difference, and they would not be wrong – from a certain point of view. But the Dark power that emanates from that cave is no mere metaphor; my flesh has been crawling with it since we first set foot here on Outer Gola.

"Master, do you suppose this _jabuur-weki_ might be… well, a means of coercion?"

The thought had occurred to me. The chieftain claims the monster comes for those who blaspheme the old ways and question the authority of their elders, while Yonso claims that it punishes those who would reveal his own cherished secrets. Convenient, either way. "It's possible, " I reply. Although the stricken Feorians – the purported victims of the _jabuur-weki – _are in a strange and inexplicable condition if they were attacked merely by their fellows. "But in that case, somebody here has an unusual weapon."

Silence expands between us, the Force rippling delicately with the echoes of an answer. We both still ourselves within its currents, seeking passively for that subtle tremor, that elusive thread of truth… but it fades, wraith-like, beneath our shared scrutiny. I exhale slowly.

"We need to go into that cave and see for ourselves," I decide.

Kenobi's mouth thins. "Yonso will not be pleased. He trusts my Padawan not to betray his secret; and that trust may be worth preserving for a while longer, at least."

True enough. "Then we must arrange a distraction. Something to keep the young Feorians occupied while we investigate."

A line appears between Kenobi's brows, but he nods in assent. "I'll put Anakin onto it. Mayhem is his specialty."


	25. Chapter 25

**Inheritance**

* * *

25.

I think maybe Master Obi-Wan and me might be getting to be friends, like I hoped.

I mean, he just gave me a super important job. I have to make a _distraction_ later tonight. A distraction is a good thing when it helps us with a mission, but it's a bad thing when it happens to me in the middle of when I'm s'posed to be meditating. That's kinda confusing, but when I asked Master about it he just said it was a _coincidentia oppositorum,_ with his eyebrows just going up a little bit like he was daring me to keep asking. So I didn't. I think he says silly bantha poodoo like that on purpose to tease me, sometimes. That's how he says he cares, 'cause Jedi aren't allowed to hug and all. And when I told him I wasn't sure whether I could do a real good distraction, he said all I had to do was act natural, and that he has _implicit faith in my capacity to wreak havoc._

See? He's starting to trust me, a lot. I feel like a real Jedi Padawan now.

But I'm not allowed to start the distraction until later. The holonet guys and some other important people from Gola Prime showed up again this afternoon and now the Feorians are putting on a big 'ol tribal gathering. It's sorta like when Gardulla the Hutt invited fancy guests to her palace and all the slaves had to put on entertainment for them, like a show or something. I don't really remember much about that but Mom told me stories about it. She said we should be grateful that Watto never put us on exhibit like that. I guess the Feorians still have to make a good show even though they're free now. Yonso thinks it's a whole lot of _boshuda_ – I can tell by the way his face is all scrunched up over there in the corner during the dancing and music and ceremonies and stuff.

I guess he doesn't like his people to be on display like a museum or something. Not when he's free and he wants to go to universe-city and all. It prob'ly makes him feel twisty inside, like when Master tells me about the Code and all the stuff it says we can't do.

I mean, what's the point of being free if everything is all _forbidden?_

Master and me had a long talk about that the other day, but it kinda made me dizzy, cause he sure had a _lot_ of stuff to say about it. He's sitting over there next to Master Windu now, all quiet and serious looking – but he got kinda worked up when we were discussing it. I think it's sorta funny when Master Obi-Wan forgets to be all calm and Jedi-ish. His eyes go all fiery and his voice actually kinda does this soft growly thing and if I'm trying really, really hard I can make him say _blast it, _ or maybe even _for the love of the Force. _Those are like his swear words, that he only busts out mostly when we're flying. Master really hates flying.

Anyway, _he_ says that the forbidden things are actually the ones that lead to enslavement – that means not being free really on the inside. Like attachment is supposed to do. And passion and stuff. And greed, and some other stuff, too. There's actually a whole lot of stuff that can make you enslaved on the inside. So then you have to make it all forbidden so you can really be free. It makes my head hurt, and I think maybe he didn't really _listen_ to my question, 'cause what I wanted to know was how come Jedi had to have rules instead of just the Force? I mean, why can't it be simple like that? Mom says that people in this universe don't help each other enough, that's the biggest problem, so why can't Jedi just help people and not _worry_ so much about their own insides so much?

Master says that when a person enslaved on the inside tries to help and fix problems, he ends up enslaving people on the outside and making more problems. It's kinda complicated. I don't want to think about it anymore.

"Hey! Hey!" Lorra's jabbing me in the side with his elbow, 'cause look! Yonso is standing up in the middle of the gathering now like he's gonna perform or something and I can see all the cam-droids and offworlders and people staring at him like they think he might be interesting or funny. I have a weird feeling in my stomach about it though, and when I look across the way to Master, I can tell he does too. Not on the outside. But sometimes I can tell things about him just _because._ Like we're kinda connected in the Force. Like friends.

And then Yonso starts telling the story of the _jabuur-weki, _ the one from the song RuRu taught me, only he's kinda changing it too, making it like something that's happening now instead of what happened a long time ago in a place far, far away. And the chieftain is getting all mad and the holonet guys are just eating it up like it's honey cake and blue milk.

It's funny, but if you listen carefully it sounds like Yonso thinks the _jabuur-weki_ might be a good guy, like it just wants the chieftain to listen to him and let him move off the Reservation and go to universe-city and stuff. Like the _jabuur-weki_ really disagrees with the old ways and just wants to see all the stupid rules get changed and it's not an avenging spirit, just the _spirit of progress._ And its only terrorizing the village 'cause they're all too stupid to understand that they're really free and they don't have to do things the old way anymore. It would be _rugged_ to have something like that on your side and all, 'cause it sure would make people listen. I mean, all the villagers and the offworlders are paying real good attention to Yonso right now. I think everybody is – except maybe Master Obi-Wan and Master Windu. They're all quiet in the corner over there and I think they just gave one another one of those not-impressed faces, the grown up kind like one of Master's not-funny jokes, the kind that hurt.

I guess Jedi aren't impressed even by the _jabuur-weki._ I guess nothing would ever make the Jedi re-think all their rules and stuff. Oh, well.

I think Yonso's story is pretty good, but I really prefer the old one, the one RuRu told me. In Yonso's version, the happy ending comes when the chieftain lets him do what he wants, and the _jabuur-weki_ just kinda disappears. In RuRu's version, it's _hoocha_ way exciting. The _jabuur-weki_ goes on like a rampage, and the young hero has to face it down and whack its head off with his vorpal blade, sorta like Master did to that Sith guy on Naboo. He got blitzed, pretty much, 'cause Master is a _wizard_ fighter. I've seen him. And it would be _rugged_ if he could crisp the _jabuur-weki _too, right where I can see the whole battle. I guess it would be okay if Master Windu did it instead, or even better if I could, except I don't even have a lightsaber or anything yet. Maybe I could just _blow it up,_ like I did to that big ol' Trade Federation ship over Naboo, and then I would be the hero. They might make me a Knight already, like Master got to be when he creamed that assassin guy.

Uh-oh. I think I better pay attention. I'm kinda getting distracted, the bad way I mean, and that's a problem 'cause I gotta stay focused so I can make the good one later. I've got a super important job, and I'm gonna do it like a _Jedi._


	26. Chapter 26

**Inheritance**

* * *

26.

The bitter night-time wind here on Outer Gola – in the moderate equatorial regions, mind you – is sharp enough to wring moisture from my eyes. Through the blearing smears of color, I can make out a shadow skulking in the dark hollows between houses, a flitter of motion on the edge of sight. The Force tells me this is a curious outsider, one who has, like me, excused himself from the festivities early.

I head him off as he sneaks around the edge of the women's shelter, and block his entrance.

"Oh!" he exclaims, clutching his thermal jacket tight about his thin chest. It is the bacci-chewer – the fellow I encountered earlier. Tonight he has a thin pink cheroot gritted between his teeth, of the same variety Dex favors when the dinner rush is too much for his nerves. Vile, but not as filthy as chewing bacci. "You gave me a turn there. Thought you were the _jabuur-weki,_ eh?"

"I might well have been," I point out. "It isn't _safe_ to wander alone past dark."

One or two of the Feorian matrons poke their heads through the door as the fellow shuffles nervously on the spot. "So you Jedi think that's ..real, eh? I mean, you are aware it's nothing but a folk superstition?"

"Oh, lord Jedi! Come in, come in where it is warm!"

I smile at the hospitable offer, but my attention is focused on this stranger. He was _looking _ for something, here in the village. "A folk superstition that attracts your scholarly interest?" I press.

He blows a thin stream of smoke through his nostrils. "Scholar, I don't know about that. I told you I'm an _amateur expert._ And believe me, all that nonsense tonight is just bosk-chissk made up for the tourists' benefit. None of that's the genuine article. You gotta ask these lovely ladies if you want the _goods._ Chieftain and those young hobos are both full of beans."

Scrawny arms are tugging at my sleeves now, their invitation transforming to an urgent command. The "amateur expert" flicks his cheroot's expired butt to the frozen earth and slips past the threshold, taking advantage of my … hesitation. I can hardly _pummel_ these Feorian crones out of the way, now can I? There is nothing else to be done but to yield, and so I duck beneath the sagging lintel into the stuffy cloister where the circle of women waits.

The goods? What does he mean by that?

"Oh, Pada-Wan!" one of the Feorians addresses me, fawning. "We were hoping you might come. We would beg a boon of thee."

Oh dear. The scholar fellow has situated himself against the far wall, and is making a rather mercenary examination of the women's half-finished weavings and baskets. I wonder vaguely whether he has a monetary interest in the artifacts – _expert _ can bear a wealth of meanings, as I have learned. "We come to serve," I answer my interlocutor, neutrally.

Another of the women, an ancient grandmotherly figure, wobbles forward. "No children have there been born to the Feorians since here we came. Outer Gola – not a fecund place is it. The jabuur-weki's curse, this may be, too. Help us, you can."

And I am suddenly and emphatically relieved – for the first time since Naboo – that Qui-Gon is _not_ here by my side.

"Ah," I choke out. Somewhere in my training, there was a provision made for this situation, but for the life of me I cannot summon the requisite knowledge. The laughing smirk plastered on the _expert's _face does not help matters either, and I fear I may be on the brink of losing my proper Jedi composure. Thank the _Force_ Anakin is not here, either, to see me reduced to blank speechlessness.

Two more of the Feorian women totter forward, bearing a small basket filled to the brim with handcrafted amulets, carven bits of hardwood attached to leathern cords. "These," one of them explains, "Will help our younger sisters. You have the Force, lord Jedi. Will you bless them for us? Give them great power!"

The hard knot beneath my ribs unclenches. _Oh._ Well. That's different, then.

"I'm sorry," I reply. "The Force is not magic, and I am not a _magician._ I cannot make your tokens bear special virtue. But I do wish your tribe well, and hope this … affliction… ends soon." I will _not_ offer to do whatever is in my power, et cetera, according to the standard formulaic response. There are limits, as I have said, and I would rather avoid misunderstandings in this context.

The self-styled expert is still leering at me in open amusement.

Very well. A Jedi is always gracious. "Perhaps this fine gentleman, who is an amateur devotee of your culture and life-ways, might be of assistance where I cannot be," I suggest, with a small bow.

The Feorian elders scrutinize the fellow at length, their drooping faces seeming to dissect and analyze his potential to fulfill their wishes. He shifts about edgily, clearly caught off guard by this turn of events, some of the unwelcome smirk wiped off his face.

"No," the eldest of the women snorts dismissively. "He will never do, Pada-Wan. Thou would be much better." She sighs wistfully, causing a certain resurgence of my previous unease.

But my acquaintance's smug smile has most definitely been erased. He glowers at me with a sullen air of defeat, but then steps away from the wall in order to have a better look at the handicrafts in the basket.

"Oh ho," he says, dangling one of the necklaces between thumb and forefinger. "The genuine article. You see, the women are always the ones to preserve the _real_ stuff. I … if you will forgive my asking so boldly – I would love to take one of these home for my missus, you know." He feigns deep melancholy. "I understand the sorrow you feel."

My brows rise, but the Feorian women cannot feel the deception in the Force as I can. They are happy to bequeath one of the magical pendants to their kind guest, even if they have not been granted special Jedi "blessing." The man pockets the primitive fertility charm and winks slyly at me as he sidles past, out the door.

Something tells me he will sell his newly acquired treasure for enormous profit. There are _collectors –_ eccentrics with large fortunes – who would love to add such an artifact to their prize possessions. The galaxy is a strange place, and imperialism takes on many contorted forms. I watch him exit, marveling anew at the perfect conjunction which greed and conniving make. It is an enviable partnership.

"What ails, thee, Pada-Wan?" the Feorian women ask plaintively. "Are you sure you will not just _touch_ some of these for us? Qui-Jinn was most happy to aid us, back all those years ago. He said it was his pleasure to help. All the children we had in the in-between place, the refugee shelters, those were from his blessing, we are sure."

Now I really must make some hasty excuse and beat a swift retreat before I _do_ lose my composure.

And I wish fervently, not for the first time since Naboo, that Master "Qui-Jinn" was indeed with me, to hear what I might have to say at his expense. And Force forgive me if I indulge in a small smirk of my own as I continue on my way back to the guest-house.

There have been only a handful of Feorian infants born since they were freed. The old women's worry is well-founded, and their simple beliefs not so very offensive, in the end. Perhaps I should have granted their request, after all. What harm would there be in it, really, strict observance of the Code aside? ….And – since we are idly speculating - I do wonder _how many_ new tribe members might result from such a fresh batch of amulets? Surely more than a _handful._

There is nobody out here to overhear my chuckle.


	27. Chapter 27

Inheritance

27.

The place was not difficult to find; the Dark Side exudes from it like a seeping black ooze. Kenobi all but balked at the entrance, and even I must admit that it is better not to face such a place alone. A topical vergence in the Force is not a phenomenon entirely unheard of; there have been many reports of such locations in remote areas, on far-flung worlds. But it is a rarity, and not something often encountered in any single Jedi's life. Ilum is such a place, one where the balance of fundamental principles is delicate, but resolved in favor of Light. There, Light contains and surrounds Darkness. The famous visions that afflict seekers within the Caves are bounded by luminous walls, rooted in wisdom, in self-knowledge. Here, though….

This place is Dark.

"Do you need help, master?"

Kenobi's clear voice echoes in the chamber beyond, but the overtones do not mask his characteristic hint of mischief. This crevice _is_ narrow, and my shoulders are not. My companion barely fit through, and he is more compactly built in general. But that does not mean I require assistance. "I can manage," I tell him, making sure to infuse the reassurance with stern authority. Don't you even dare to _think_ it, my friend.

And I wriggle through, somehow or another. Force knows I had to fit into many a tight spot as old Yoda's apprentice. His rule of thumb was this: if he could manage it, so ought his Padawan to be able. If I ever complained of having grown too tall for some exercise or obstacle course, I would always be informed that _my own fault, was that._

Kenobi rubs at the back of his neck, as though massaging away an incipient headache. It will only get worse as we proceed, but forward we must go. "One more cavern, I think," he says, gazing round the dimly lit vastness. Sparks of light are reflected in the buried crystals. "The last cave had far more ithyll than this… " He turns a slow circle and then points to a shadow in the back wall. "Over there."

We proceed slowly, reluctance dragging at both our footsteps. I raise my mental shields high, aware of the subtle influx of wicked suggestion, of hot passion. Beside me, I feel Kenobi tense, both physically and in the Force. We push onward, resisting the invisible barriers, the prickling mental invasion.

The second passage is yet narrower. A child, or one of the skinny Feorians, might squeeze through here - but few others.

"All right," I sigh. "I surrender." Peering through the jagged crack, I glimpse the splendor of the chamber behind. Limpid pools glitter beneath a crystal fretted roof. The magnificence of the treasures growing in inverted castles and towers, impossible mineral clouds filling the dome of this subterranean heaven. The price of a small planet is contained herein… and something else.

I move aside, and Kenobi squints into the murky cavern in his turn. His shoulders twist in revulsion, and he steps back again, inhaling slowly. I can see perspiration beading at his temples.

"_How_ far in did your Padawan go?" I ask, amazed. The Feorians I can understand; they are none of them Force-sensitive. But that a child with little or no training could withstand the sheer _intensity_ of this place… I can hardly believe it.

"All the way – he was standing inside that last cavern. He showed me, master. I'm sure he was here. He described the feeling it evokes very accurately… though he didn't convey the strength of the Force here."

Impossible. Yet true. That sums up the Skywalker boy nicely. I will meditate on the implications later. For now, we must complete this unpleasant task. "I don't feel the presence of any particular sentient or other life form, do you?"

He shakes his head. "The _jabuur-weki_ doesn't appear to be home," he remarks, favoring me with a fleeting, wry smile.

Another indication that the creature doesn't truly exist? Or simply that it walks by night, and only returns to its lair in daylight hours? "Blast," I mutter. "I'd like a better look at that inner cavern."

Kenobi gathers himself, and then exhales. "I can fit through," he decides, eyes wandering over the fissure's uneven length, assessing. "Unfortunately," he adds.

I nod. A Jedi does not turn back from a difficult task, and he is a Knight of the Order now. I watch as he sheds his cloak and squirms his way into the crevice, sideways, sucking in a deep breath as the rock presses painfully against his ribs. A minute or two of determined shimmying, and he's managed to cram himself an impressive distance into the narrow aperture, like a cephalopod squeezing into a bottle. He stops, and unless I'm mistaken, he utters a very colorful phrase under his breath.

"Well?" It _is_ humorous. From this perspective, at least.

He grumbles something else – but it ends in _master,_ so I let it slide. He's going to have some pretty bruises when this is done, anyway. "You could teach a Twi'Lek dancing girl a few moves," I observe, teasingly. The Force flares with suppressed chagrin, and he writhes his way into freedom, grunting a bit as he escapes the crushing confines of the opening.

I can hear his boots splashing in the water underfoot as he moves across the cavern.

"This is the place," he calls back to me.

I wait outside the ragged threshold, listening to the drip of moisture, to the soundless growl of menace reverberating in the Force. Product of fantasy or not, the _jabuur-weki_ has indeed chosen a suitable lair. I can see how this place might have worked upon the imaginations of the impressionable young Feorians, how the dark vergence might even have inspired _visions_ of a nightmarish monster…

"Look for a source," I call into the echoing chamber beyond. I can just make out the glimmer of Kenobi's tunics, reflecting the dull light of the ithyll crystal. His skin looks as pale as the blanched cloth. The Dark fills the cave, overflows it. The center of the vergence _must_ be contained therein.

And then I feel it – like a blast of icy wind in the Force. A presence, a knot of energy without name or form, a shadow coagulated from other clotted shadows.

My saber's blade leaps to meet the challenge, Light rising to greet the intruding Dark. And I pivot on the spot, eyes straining through the gloom to see what lurks in the space beyond, descending from the surface back to this secret tabernacle beneath the frozen earth.

Impossible, yet true. The _jabuur-weki _has returned.


	28. Chapter 28

**Inheritance**

* * *

28.

Now _this_ is a distraction.

And I was totally right about the Feorians' old junky hover-tram. See? I fixed it without even a decent toolkit, just the micro-drivers I carry everywhere in my belt pouch, mostly 'cause they're small enough to fit, and some ol' scrap circuits I found in Yonso's house. Sometimes they get donations of old chiszzky comm equipment and stuff, but nobody here knows what to do with busted transceivers so they just make jewelry and weird stuff like that with it. I salvaged some of it and I rerouted the repulsor lapse regulator and look! It runs like a podracer now, practically.

I mean, it's prob'ly not Galactic safety standard and all… but it goes _fast. _And that's all that matters, really.

Yonso and the other guys think it's pretty _wizard._ I don't think they've ever been podracing or anything like that, and they don't have any real good vehicles here at all. We've gone like a bazillion klicks all the way across the tundra plain, and guess what? There actually are hills and stuff here on Gola. If you get north far enough, the land sorts changes and there's these sharp cliff things made of ice and rock, kinda like the dune sea at home on Tatooine except all frozen. There's no plants at all up here, and not even any dirt, really. It's just rocks and slick ice, like maybe it never melts. And its _hoocha_ cold, with the wind and all. We're gonna have to turn back in a minute, maybe, 'cause I can't even feel my fingers or anything.

Yonso and Lorra and all the guys are really cheering loud and whooping and singing funny songs. This is like a holiday and guess what? They've never even heard of Boonta Eve! I mean, even the kids in the Temple knew what Boonta was even though they never get to celebrate it and even if they were kinda snotty about it like it wasn't proper and all. They _knew about it._ These Feorians didn't even know. I guess they have some folk holidays and stuff, but Yonso says that they have to _cast off the shackles of tradition_, which I guess means he thinks those are stupid or something. I guess he just thinks everything about being Feorian is stupid. He'll prob'ly learn about Boonta when he goes to universe-city, anyway.

You can see all the stars here, not like Coruscant. Back at the Temple you can hardly see any stars, cause the buildings and traffic and all drown out the sky with light. Back home you could see 'em all, though. But guess what? The constellations are different on most every planet you go to. So it's kinda like every world has its own stars, not all the same. Except out in space they are the same, really. It's weird. Master says it's a good metaphor for the _disparity of subjective experience_ _and the unification of knowledge in the Force._ All I know is that I'm gonna be the first person to visit every single star system. But I better get moving. I mean, I've already been a Jedi for like half a year now and we only got to go to a few places. That's not fast enough. Master Obi-Wan's sorta holding me back.

"It's too cold!" Lorrah complains, and he's right.

"We're gonna turn around!" I yell. You gotta yell cause the cab's not really enclosed or anything and the adjustments I made to the drive regulator are kinda loud, actually. This thing's pretty hard to turn around, but I think I did it right. We're mostly going in the right direction, too… I think.

So now we're headed back toward the Feorian village and Master will be pretty pleased 'cause I distracted these guys like all night long or something. It takes a while to go this far and get back. I really hope there's a _chubazzi_ big breakfast cooking, too, 'cause I'm practically starving. Being super distracting is really hard work.

Whoa! Where did all _those_ come from? There weren't any animals when we came up this way, but now there's like a bazillion of them, all spread across the plain as far as you can see. And they look _just like _banthas! "Banthas!" I shout. They have banthas here, and its like as far from Tatooine as you can get. Isn't that _rugged?_

"What's a bantha?" Lorra hollers.

"Those! Those are banthas, you _chuba booki_!" I mean, here they are right in the middle of his own home world and he doesn't know what they are.

"But those are Tadons," he argues.

What a _chuba_. So maybe they have a different word for these guys, but _so what_! And these ice banthas have tusks like even bigger than the sand ones, and their fur is all white and now that we're closer I can see they kinda have this long nose thing hanging down too. And whoa! Even one of them could prob'ly knock this tram right over, so we better be kinda careful and…

Uh oh.

Yonso or maybe one of his friends is yelling something about a stampede and all of a sudden the ice banthas are all running, making the ground rumble and stuff, and a big 'ol cloud of white dust sorta rises off the ice and rolls around. You can't see _anything_ in this, but that's okay 'cause I can pretty much still tell where they all are without seeing them, you know, and then it really is like podracing, I mean I'm dodging and swerving and stuff so we don't run into a bantha and it's like I'm at the controls of my really good racer, the one I built myself that Master Qui-Gon bet on and all.

I really love flying.

The only problem is, this really isn't a podracer and it's kinda heavy and now all the bantha things are panicking and running in every direction at once. I think this is what Master meant when he said _playing tag in an asteroid field. _ That's what he said it was like trying to keep me outta trouble, and I didn't get what he meant. But I think I sorta get it now, and you know what? He's really full of _poodoo._

'Cause I am way smarter than these banthas. It's like they _want_ to get hit, and I think…. Maybe… uh oh.

_Boshuda._

This is _not good…._

Something musta hit us – and the train is slewing around all crazy- I can't stop it, even with the Force, but I'm trying real hard - and the Feorians are all shrieking and there's ice and wind and spinning around and flying and -


	29. Chapter 29

**Inheritance**

* * *

29.

This inner cave is Dark, in more than one sense. No sooner did I set foot into it than I felt the oppressive stillness of this chamber – and behind me, where Master Windu waits, the arrival of something else. A _presence._

And with that presence there comes a change; the furled shadows within this vault stir, and rise in response, thunder brewing invisibly in the Force. I stumble as the Balance shifts, as the crystal fretted walls seem to melt into diaphanous curtains, the puppet-theater of dark vision.

Suddenly, I am both here and – impossibly, horribly – _there._

The shallow film of water splashing beneath my feet reflects the dim light of the crystals embedded above, and yet it is also polished black plasteel, reflecting artificial constellations.

This cavern is a hollowed dome beneath Outer Gola's frigid wastes, and yet it is also the sculptured architecture of a generator core, another black cathedral, a different set of walls and buttresses.

The glint of mineral facets here and there, the drip of water from dangling stalactites is the solemn whisper of nature's edifice - and yet it is also the gleam of hatred in jaundiced eyes, the ragged pant of breath and pulse as the pitched battle unfolds.

My footsteps are my own, and also those of two others. The roar of silence in my ears is the warning thrum of four saber blades, a discordant chorus.

And the Dark… that is here and there at once, everywhere and nowhere, a nauseating chant drumming in soundless cacophony. I seem to make out the syllables, each one shaped by the heavy plop of a chill droplet into the puddle beneath: _Kor-ah. Mah-tah. Kor -ah. Rah-tah-mah._ The voice seems to well up from a bottomless pit, a shaft descending to the planet's mantle – but that pit is also a tiny nexus of malice in the cave's center, a group of misshapen, cancerous crystals standing like a forbidden isle amid the largest of the murky pools. This is the _source_ of Darkness.

This is a thing I have not yet seen, nor felt, though I know what it is: a vergence in the Force, centered about a place. Here the Dark coils like a serpent about a warm stone, multiplying in every mirrored surface of the ithyll, insinuating itself beneath my skin, into thought and feeling. There is no Light…. And the suffocating absence is palpable, a vortex drawing all things toward a singularity. To think that a chunk of mineral – that maimed twist of crystal, looking like a goiter, its pale milky luminance a poisonous lantern, a false beacon – could be the _locus_ of such power, such undiluted despair.

I cannot approach it. I cannot.

Nor can I tell where _here _ends and _there_ begins, where _now_ bleeds into _then, _ into nightmare without waking. Sensation can be a liar, a deceiver: and yet the Force itself in this warped here, this twisted now, is also a liar. The Dark is a weaver of illusion, of falsehood, and here it has wrought a tapestry as complex and knotty as the blanket the Feorian crones bequeathed to me. I can feel my very breath and life compounded into its sinuous pattern, warp against weft, regret lashed to grief, memory to the weight of promise. It is a braid, too…a _chain…_ a noose.

There is no emotion; there is peace. There is no passion; there is serenity. There is no ignorance; there is knowledge. There is no –

_Kor-ah. Rah-tah-mah. Yood-ah. Kor -ah._

The laughter of the Dark takes on a shape and a place… without. In the chamber I have left behind. I struggle back, through the shallow gleaming water, across the slippery stretch of black floor. There – beyond the narrow barrier – it coalesces. A _thing._ A nothing. A gathering of shadows into substance, a nameless presence. A purple saber flashes into life before it, the violet flame forbidding further egress. And yet it does not stop, nor does it falter. And I know that this is the enemy, the _jabuur-weki, _ the thing which is mere legend from another age.

As the Sith are mere legend from another age, tales told to make younglings shiver, a haunting echo of some horror long ago vanquished. The Sith are unreal, as the _jabuur-weki_ is unreal, as fear and passion and death are unreal. The Dark laughs, mocking all such fragile boundaries, laying siege to the thin barrier between waking present and primordial nightmare. The _jabuur-weki _ looms, awful, pitted against Light. Yet all I see is the Sith surging forward, leering, hungry for the kill.

And I am _caught-_ behind the barrier – separated off – trapped.

The narrow gap through which I passed taunts me, its width seeming to shrink before my eyes to a razor's edge of red light, a pulsating veil of crimson. My breath ratchets into battle rhythm, memory flooding molten over the brink of awareness, an eruption of forgotten dread. On the other side of the gap, a violet saber spins, defiant. Or is it a green blade twisting and parrying, desperate? The Sith's murderous stave cuts a blinding swath of fire…the _jabuur-weki_ bristles with blue lightning, a wrathful storm of clawing fingers reaching for its prey.

_Kor-ah. Syahd-ho. Rah-tah-mah. Daan-yah._

The green blade blocks, feints, lunges, strikes. The purple 'saber sweeps, arcs, defends. Lightning spatters upon the walls and ceiling. The _jabuur-weki _shrieks in rage, its voice without place, without body, boiling in our blood, setting the Light afire with its outrage.

_Kor-ah. Kee-lah. Daan-yah. _

No. No. _No._ It will not be – not again. I stand _transfixed_ when I must act. When I must banish the past and its visions, the Dark's tempting illusion, the hallucinations of despair.

_Nyo-Hah, Kee-lah, Kor-ah, Rah-tah-mah._

There is no can or cannot, no try. There is only do. There is only what must be done.

I turn, away from the battle, away from the barrier, away from memory and present horror, away from the piercing howls of the formless monster.. There, behind me– the center, the source. I face it, though I cannot. My own blade leaps into life, and it is not mine. It is the emerald fire of _that place, that time._ It is defeat and victory, joy and sorrow, memory and promise. And its song rivals the wicked canticle of the Dark.

_Syahd-ho. _Honor. _Kee-lah. _Truth. _Kor-ah._ Peace. _Rah-Tah-Mah. _Light.

The clot of malformed crystals is a putrescence rotting in the bowels of this cave, of this world. Evil clings to it, turgid, viscous. One strike. One strike at the center, the source. The Dark pushes back, resistant, fearful, enraged – telling me that I _cannot, _ that I should let go and fall into oblivion.

_Kor-ah, Daan-yah, Rah-tah-mah, Kor-ah!_

A soaring leap over the stretch of opaque water, the shallow lake. A single turn in midair, the turn of Fate's wheel complete on the downswing – _there!_ The blade lands true and straight, driving through the center of the wretched mass, cleaving sickly pale rock to splintering shards, ending the chant, silencing the Dark.

It is not the first time I have done what I cannot do.

The _jabbuur-weki_ wails; the saber screams; the cave explodes with light and obliterating fire; and I am slammed backward against unyielding stone, pierced by that merciless fleet lightning, crying out in my turn with pain - and there is no here or there, no present or past… only the Force.


	30. Chapter 30

**Inheritance**

* * *

30.

And it is gone, as suddenly as it appeared.

I release a long breath, my saber's blade sheathed again, contracted into potential within the hilt. There is nothing here – the _jabuur-weki_ did not flee so much as dissolve, its presence reduced to tattered shreds, like mist rent through by a breaking sun.

But the Force whispers to me that it is not _destroyed, _only temporarily routed.

I turn back to the inner cave, the origin of the explosive power that shattered the monster to nothingness. Kenobi was in there; what in _stars' name_ did that boy do?

"Kenobi."

No answer. I lean into the cramped opening as far as possible, squinting in the subterranean gloom. The inner chamber is deathly still, and I sense a tremendous disturbance. Surely he was not so foolish as to –

"Obi-Wan!"

_Blast_ this narrow crack in the cave's walls. I grasp my weapon's hilt again, briefly calculating how long it will take to carve a chunk out of the solid rock, a slight widening of the natural crevice.

A stir of motion within alleviates the worst of my fears.

"Kenobi!" My eyes slowly adjust to the dimness; the ithyll crystals are for the most part intact, but many have been scored and cracked. In the center of the space there lies a blasted chunk of stone, looking like a volcanic crater rising out of a muddied sea. _Fierfek._ He _was_ foolish enough. Probably went at the thing with his 'saber.

"…Master Windu?" An unsteady scuffle and a splash tell me that he's at least found his feet. The tremor rippling in the Force tells me that he's on the verge of losing them again.

"You need to get out of there," I order. I know him well enough by now to see what will work best. "Come back through that opening."

More scuffling and splashing. His silhouette appears on the other side, hands grasping at the edges of the gap for support. "Oh," he says, in dismay. "I – ah."

"If you can get in you can get out. Don't make me _carve_ my way in there," I add, sternly. Come on, Kenobi - you are _capable,_ dammit. The Dark is slowly re-forming, the storm-tossed remnants of its power gathering together again, driven on an invisible wind. We need to be _out_, and soon.

"Coming," he grunts, squeezing his way back through the gap. This time he doesn't bother to keep his imprecations sotto voce – but I overlook the breach of manners. He appears to be stuck halfway through.

"_Blast it to the hells," _he grimaces. "Ugh."

I seize his arm and pull. There's no time for delicacy. The Dark is rising again, like a vengeful tide. We've no time to waste. "Come on," I order, using the Force to back up the command. He hisses sharply as I yank him through, heedless of scrapes and bruises.

He practically collapses into my arms, but that's fine with me. I reach a hand out, summon his fallen weapon into my grip through the jagged cave opening, and drag the man himself back through the caves. The next opening is a painful exercise, but we make it through somehow. The last threshold is wider- I urge him forward, stumbling or not. A wild ululation is echoing in the Force, the Dark licking its wounds. I thrust an arm beneath Kenobi's shoulders and pull him up onto the surface, beneath a pale dawning sky. Ice slicks the earth as I guide us back to the village.

We've stirred up more trouble, that much is for certain.

And when I manage to haul my young friend past the village boundaries, I find the whole place is in an unprecedented uproar.

The chieftain shakes his ceremonial staff in my face. "Thieves!" he roars. "Those young fiends have stolen our only transport! Robbed their people and run away." His flapping ears droop and his thin arms gesticulate sharply. "Thy boy went with them, too!" he accuses. "Conspirators, lord Jedi! The _jabuur-weki _will punish all of thee!"

I half expect this pronouncement to be followed by an edict expelling us from the village – but our Feorian friend is not yet accustomed to such bold exercise of his freedom and authority. He subsides into a helpless passivity, scowling at me and muttering his displeasure to the world in general as he retreats into the elders' longhouse.

"Anakin," Kenobi mutters, alarm lancing through the Force between us.

I'm tempted to utter a most unbecoming sentiment. Skywalker seems to have overdone the _distraction._ And if the chief's story is true, he's long overdue. I sense a disaster, just over the horizon. And the young fool has taken the villagers' only vehicle, robbing us of any means to send out a search party.

"Master - I need to find him."

I don't think so. "You're staying here," I tell my young companion. It's high time Skywalker got _himself_ out of a mess – it might help dissuade him from plunging so recklessly into danger at every turn. _Like his master._ Yes, I'll be so blunt as to add that observation. I'm sure Kenobi lectures his Padawan to tears of boredom about caution and prudence, but I'll say it once again: _example_ shows what words do not, and often outweighs them.

"But-"

"No," I answer. The stubborn gundark; he's just like Qui-Gon. I'm not about to yield in this matter. Before we can join battle, we are surrounded by a gaggle of solicitous Feorian women, the grandmothers and great-grandmothers of the tribe. A dozen wrinkled hands reach to help me with my sagging burden. Kenobi mutters some inarticulate protest.

"Oh, lord Jedi, what has happened to Pada-Wan?"

"Oh, let us help! We will make a great fire to warm your guest house. We will bring medicines and our best talismans, too."

"Oh, hath thou hunted the jabuur-weki, lord Jedi? Hath thou slain it, perhaps?"

"We've seen it," I inform them. "And fought it."

They jabber in unison, a garbled chorus of exclamations and conflicting advice. I push through, beating a straight line for the shelter of the guest lodging, half-carrying Kenobi as we stagger across the courtyard and into the feeble warmth within. He drops like a stone onto one of the crude palettes. A few of the hospitable and curious old crones try to follow us inside – I banish them with a pointed look.

There is a magnificent woven blanket folded across the mattress' end, a masterpiece of the weaver's craft. I haven't the foggiest notion where this treasure came from, but I throw it over my shivering companion and set to work on the fire, nudging the sluggish embers into hot and flickering life with the Force.

Shadows dance on the hut's inner walls. Some _leave of duty_ this is proving to be: I now have a missing Padawan and an ailing young master on my hands. As Yoda warned me, I might very well learn something from this experience.

And it is not a welcome lesson.


	31. Chapter 31

31.

Aw, poodoo.

Master's gonna kill me.

That was really…. Bad. Ow. This ice stuff hurts kinda where it's digging into my hands. Ow! I can't see much, but I think those bantha things went around us, I mean after the tram tipped over and we all went flying. I guess its good there's so much dust and all- I'm super freezing cold though and I can't really…uh oh.

Right there in front of me – that big ol' heap of ice isn't really ice at all. It's a bantha thing. And it's dead. I can tell, just because. There's like this hole in the universe right there, where the bantha used to be. I mean, the body is still there but its totally empty. I _blitzed_ it with the tram when we crashed.

"Jedi! Curse him, where is he?"

That's Yonso. He doesn't sound real happy. No wonder, 'cause the tram thing is pretty busted. It's like in a million pieces and the repulsors are all fried. You can tell by the stink in the air, and I hope the grav compressors don't blow. That happened one time at home when this guy bought a faulty hover sled from Mirko – that was Wattos' big rival until a few years back – and the chassis got a major crack in it and with the temperature extremes and all the pressure was too much – and _pow._ It was pretty gruesome, actually and Mom wouldn't let me get anywhere near it.

I wonder if that dead bantha was a mom? What's gonna happen to her baby now, since she's dead? Will the other banthas take care of him or is he all stuck on his own?

I wish Master were here.

It's cold here, which means the repulsor prob'ly won't blow, even if it's punctured. The thing about repulsors is everybody uses them but nobody really _thinks _ about it. A basic compressor unit has to create enough mass inversion to counterbalance the platform plus the weight load. That's like a few tons of explosives only the other way 'round. I mean, if you breach the damper shields and all you could seriously _blow it up._

I could make a really _hoocha_ big bomb out of like an old repulsor, but I'd probably need a lightsaber or something to puncture the shields. You can't do that with mostly anything. But a 'saber would do it.

"You!" Yonso's kinda yelling at me now, with his face all scrunched up and his arms flailing around all crazy like Watto having a fit. He's mad 'cause of the crash nut that was the _banthas' _fault, not mine. And if the stupid tram wasn't so rickety and old and all, I coulda flown us right through those guys without hitting anything. I just didn't have time to fix it up _all_ the way, is all.

And the bantha getting killed isn't my fault either, not really. I mean it was stupid enough to run in front of the tram and all. It was like suicidal.

Some of the other guys are all mad, too, like they think I crashed on purpose. They're kinda getting mean-looking and I have a funny feeling about it, like maybe they're not realy my friends after all. Even Lorra's sorta mad.

"Shut up!" I shout at Yonso. He better be quiet._now_ 'cause I don't like it when people yell! Master _never_ yells. Except when we're flying, but that's different.

He keeps shouting and making fists and then he _jumps_ at me –

-And I throw him into the ice and stuff, really really hard. He shouldn't have done that. He shouldn't have gotten me all mad. I feel kinda sick, but also kinda excited like I might throw him again. All the other guys are super real quiet, staring at me.

It's like when Master threw Garen Muln in the dojo except then they were both laughing and now nobody's laughing. All the Feorians are scared of me.

Like I'm a real Jedi.

Sorta. People aren't s'posed to be afraid of Jedi. They're backing away now, all respectful and stuff. Yonso looks really scared, too. He knows who the boss is around here.

The wind's picking up real bad and now there's so much ice dust in the air you can barely breathe. "Get inside the tram!" I order. I mean, these guys have never been in a sandstorm, but I have. And an ice storm is pretty much the same, I figure. You need shelter and the best way is to get under the busted tram and dig in.

So they do what I say and stuff and pretty soon we're all holed up here under the broken hover tram. It's okay except none of them want to be near me, not even Lorrah, so they're a lot warmer than me, all huddled up together at that end. I'm stuck here alone and I really, really wish Master Obi-Wan was here because he would know what to do. Once when we crashed before – not on purpose and it wasn't my fault that time – we got stuck and he was completely calm about it. He said a solution would present itself, which is just the same as Master Qui-Gon said on Tatooine. I guess maybe that's what all Jedi say? But also I sorta think calling for help would be okay, too. But there's no comm circuits in this thing to make a signal or anything like that, and my comlink isn't showing a clear channel. That's 'cause of the storm.

I wonder how far we are from the village and whether they'll come looking for us. I mean, Master won't let me be stuck here for too long. I hope. It's pretty cold and there's no food or anything. I guess this is more like the bad kind of distraction after all, the one that makes you lose your focus and leads to trouble.

If I close my eyes and concentrate real hard, sometimes I can feel Master even when we're far apart. That's what I'm doing right now, 'cept it's not working and I have this weird feeling in my tummy like he's not okay. What if he went into the jabuur-weki's cave and something _bad_ happened?

I can't help thinking about that dead bantha, either. I wonder if the herd will look for it? Or will they just keep going like nothing happened? That's what happens when another slave dies. Most everyone just keeps going with their own life, 'cause you can get punished for being too _distracted_ by something like that. Jedi don't let themselves get distracted either… but I think it's different. I mean, that poodoo Master Obi-Wan said about the asteroid isn't true. He'll come looking for me. And maybe he'll know what to do about the bantha. I mean, I feel kinda bad just leaving it there for the scavengers. On Tatooine if you leave a dead animal in the sand, it's nothing but bones in two days flat. The bugs eat most of it, and the sand cleans the rest. There's lots of _rugged_ skeletons just laying around out in the Dine sea, and also some wrecked ships the Jawas cleaned out and stuff. But I don't want that to happen to me.

Yonso and those other guys are all grumbling and muttering and pointing their fingers now. They're mad and they're scared, too. I can tell they think I crashed their stupid hover train on purpose and maybe like it was a plan to get rid of them that the chieftain made with the Jedi. They're really whispering and talking a lot and that weird feeling inside me keeps getting worse and worse.

And Lorra's with them. He's whispering with them, too. It's like he turned against me.

I _really_ wish I had a 'saber, like Master. I would show them. I would _make_ them shut up and see the truth.

It's freezing out here… I hope somebody comes soon. 'Cause I have a really bad feeling about this.


	32. Chapter 32

**Inheritance**

* * *

32.

Half in and half out of a healing trance, the world of sensation appears in an inverse chiaroscuro: the fire burning merrily in the room's center manifests itself as negation, a place where once-living wood is reduced to fluttering ash, crumbling into destruction amid a corona of heat. By contrast, Master Windu's somber and dark figure no longer veils his inner Light; he shines brighter than the mere physical fire by far, a radiance that fills the small shelter to overflowing. Things that are separate in space intertwine within the Force; solidity becomes ephemeral; the invisible renders itself apparent.

In truth, I would rather slip back into deep meditation, but…

"Master." I need to know where Anakin is, what has happened, whether –

"Improved?" he asks, stirring out of his tranquil posture beside the fire. The dancing flames cast his face in motley light and shadow, their liquid echoes sliding golden across his skin.

Who? What? _Force, _I'm sore. Everywhere. And I have no idea how I came by it. Master Windu's stern features swim into view. He's rather _scrutinizing_ me, I think.

"You don't do anything by halves, do you, son?"

What is that supposed to mean? An idle thought: I did that barve _Maul_ by halves, so really such an accusation is unfounded.

He seems to perceive the unguarded thought, and chuckles darkly. I pull my mental shields tight, all too late.

"Well, your sense of humor is still broken, so you must be all right," he decides.

I _see._ The Feorian blanket rumples into soft folds as I cautiously sit up. I rub at my sternum, my neck. I believe I must have been run over by a bantha.

"Wait," he advises. "Don't drink that- it's the local wives' remedy." He removes the carafe of suspect liquid and hands me a stone bowl of water instead. There was water in a cave, I think… a dark pool, and …

I don't quite remember… and where is Anakin?

"Easy," Mace Windu advises. "You took quite a blast in there. I thought for a moment I was going to find you in the same condition as the Feorians attacked by the jabuur-weki."

The jabuur-weki. Ah, yes. Now I recall. _The jabuur-weki!_ Stars' end, we actually encountered it in that Sithly cave… and there was a crystal in the center of the inner chamber. I think I may have- "What happened?" I query. I have to admit, the whole incident is a bit blurry.

"The _jabuur-weki _ appeared inside the caves while we were investigating," he sums up, concisely. "You attempted to destroy the source of the vergence, with your saber. The crystal formation shattered, releasing a violent explosion of Force lightning. You're lucky to be alive."

"There's no such thing as luck."

"Well, then, you're Force-blessed, or else destined for a much worse fate." He smiles briefly, a flash of white in the dim lodging's interior.

Or both, I suppose. But this is a distraction. "Anakin," I say. My voice is uncommonly hoarse. I clear my throat. "We need to find –"

"The planetary security is sending a transport to the village now. When it arrives, I'll go hunt him down. In the meanwhile, there's nothing you can do but be patient."

Of course. Exhale. Patience. I am well versed in it, am I not?

"I was going to reprimand you for exceedingly reckless action, but given the circumstances, I find I can't honestly do so. Had you not smashed the focal point, I wonder what might have occurred."

This praise is chilling, for to imagine Master Windu overwhelmed by any opponent is… unthinkable. I cannot hide my frown. "Inside the caves," I tell him – because it must be confessed to _somebody…_ and Qui-Gon is not here….

"Go on." It is strange to hear this man speak with such gentleness, but not unwelcome. And we are not in a Council session, as he has already reminded me.

"It was as though I were in Theed again – battling the Sith assassin. The vision was very intense – like Ilum. It was difficult to resist."

He merely nods, registering neither surprise nor censure. "Yes. I too perceived the _jabuur-weki_ under another guise," he tells me, soberly.

But not the same, I presume. "What did _you_ see?" I wonder aloud.

Master Windu's brows rise, fractionally, and I instantly regret the intrusion. One does not simply ask a senior Council member under what dark form his inmost fear is embodied. I dip my head in apology.

"Forgive me, master – I spoke without thought – "

He waves it aside. "Another time and place, perhaps." And that, too, is wise. In such a place, where the very Force is so disturbed, we would do better to keep our focus centered upon other things. And yet, I cannot help but wonder what this abomination is, in essence and truth.

"Do you think the monster is… real?" a youngling's naïve question, but how else shall I couch it? The _jabuur-weki_ is as palpable as fear itself – at once nothing and everything. There are many who would call such a phenomenon _unreal…_ but such judgments depend greatly on one's point of view.

"From a Jedi perspective?" he muses, gravely. "More than any creature of flesh and blood. It is a _projection_ of the vergence. I've studied such things, though I never thought to encounter one myself." He lapses into a contemplative silence, and I shift about, gingerly stretching my shoulders and back, eliciting a sustained protest. Stars… there must have been a _herd _of banthas trampling me. Force lightning? That too is a mere scholar's dispute, a rumored possibility, not part of waking and practical reality. Here on Gola, we have wandered into a liminal realm, one situated on the border between the known and the imagined.

It might be easier to take a page from Anakin's book. Never mind the theoretical implications. "What shall we do about it?"

Master Windu approves of this change in tactics. It suits him perfectly. "First," he announces briskly. "I'm going to find that wayward Padawan of yours. Then I'm going to have a _talk_ with him, man to man. And then we'll discuss our friend the _jabuur-weki."_ He rises, his dark cloak flowing upward with him, draping heavily over his wide shoulders like the weight of long decades.

The jabuur-weki has perhaps met its match, but I doubt even Master Windu is fully prepared to deal with Anakin Skywalker. Still, I am content to let him try his hand at it – I will admit to certain smug anticipation of the results, whether for good or for ill, and besides… I am mortally tired.

"You stay here," he orders, with a knowing wag of the finger. "And no argument."

Did I say anything? I didn't say anything.

"Good," he decides, taking my silence for consent. Which, I suppose, it is. Blast it.

A burst of frigid wind slips through the door as he exits, tormenting the fire, whipping it into contorted pillars and sending a cascade of sparks toward the roof. I brush a few away from the Feorian women's blanket, preserving their delicate and pain-staking handiwork from harm, and sink back down against the hard palette. But rest is elusive, and creeping anxiety lurks just outside the walls of my self-control, eager to gain entrance, to find a new and better lair in which to dwell.

Beware the Dark side, Jedi… Beware the _jabuur-weki._


	33. Chapter 33

**Inheritance**

* * *

33.

"Veer north-east," I instruct the taciturn pilot of this creaking planetary security ice-speeder. The man obligingly alters our trajectory, his doughty companion scanning the horizons with a pair of high power 'noculars.

We'll find them, sooner or later. I'm confident of it. I only hope we find all or most of them in one piece, especially the brash Skywalker boy. After all the scrapes from which Kenobi has saved his apprentice, I would rather my first attempt at doing the same _not_ end in disaster. It's not a point of personal pride so much as a concern for Kenobi: I'd like him to see that the Order, and the Council, have not abandoned him to his task without hope of aid or support. I feel a personal responsibility in the matter.

And he trusts me. Blast it! Kenobi has a way of insinuating himself into others' affections, just as he wriggled his way through that cave fissure. As a young Padawan, he had that stubborn gundark Jinn wrapped around his little finger in a matter of months, though the old rebel would have denied it to his dying day. Even Yoda can be fairly accused of a special liking for Obi-Wan, which explains why the ancient master is so seemingly harsh in his edicts and reprimands. I can see through _that_ by now. And I seem to have fallen into the same trap myself. I'm _anxious_ about Skywalker, on his master's behalf. _Fierfek._ I'm growing soft in my old age.

"Something over the next ridge – minus two degrees," the scout reports, still peering through the optical enhancers. I exhale; that something might be our missing expedition.

Kenobi had _some_ cheek to ask me what dark visions I experienced in that cave. Qui-Gon must have been lax about such points of discipline, probably outright inviting both familiarity and debate - even occasional disrespect, if it was veiled thickly enough in wit. I knew him well. And he raised his last Padawan with a strong hand of authority he would never have tolerated from the Council relative to his own person, and yet also with a sly indulgence better suited to a doting grandfather than a Master of the Order. I'll admit it seems to have worked: Force knows Kenobi turned out far better than Jinn's _other_ Padawan, the one who Turned and left the Order young to embrace hereditary wealth, and later the lust for sheer power. So there might be something to be said for _bending_ established tradition to suit individual cases.

Though it's still dangerous.

"Looks like a crash site," the eager security officer informs us, adjusting his macronoculars' focus. "Yes – might be a hover train. But there aren't any life forms, just a dead tadon."

"They might be beneath the wreckage," I supply. If the Padawan has any sense, he will have taken shelter in the most obvious location. He's been trained in basic survival techniques, and he hails from a harsh world. The pilot swerves round a projecting ridge of stone and speeds onward.

Kenobi's question _was _relevant, however. I'm relieved he didn't press for an answer. Because in the jabuur-weki's presence I encountered a perfect mirror of inmost dread. The thing is a golem fashioned of fear and memory, of anger and pain. I've studied such things – in theory, in the sterile fortress of abstract knowledge. A vergence is indeed capable of producing illusions – mirages of an almost substantial intensity. The Dark works in mysterious ways, just as the Light does. And this _jabuur-weki…._ It is the form of the Feorians' collective fears, their racial memories of loss and oppression and confusion and despair. It was given shape by their presence, given _life_ by that cave.

In a way, the _jabuur-weki_ has indeed followed them here… and in a way, it was always here on Gola waiting.

And now it is greater, for the fears of two Jedi have been woven into its shadowy nimbus, threaded into its shifting pattern. It would be arrogant and foolish to presume that the creature – for a knot of energy or Force-projection is still a kind of creature – was destroyed when the crystals were damaged. That whole cave glittered with ithyll, and I felt the Dark still centered there, a black hole in the Force.

To unmake the vergence, we would have to obliterate that entire cave. And that poses its own set of problems.

The speeder comes to a skidding halt, strewing a fine dusting of ice over the frost-slicked form of a mangled tram. The other two in our convoy halt a short distance away, waiting upon our signal. I take one glance at the wreck and know that this vehicle will never run again. It is now a mere scrap-pile rusting in the tundra. A ring of hungry predators scatters at our noisy arrival, and then creeps forward again, their steaming jaws as blood-spattered as the tadon corpse lying nearby. The leaders warily return to their prize, while sentinels watch us with hollow orange eyes.

"Skywalker!" My voice cuts across the wind.

A stir of motion beneath the wreckage, and here is the missing Padawan's fair head emerging from the shadows. The band of predators growls and moves in, eager to make another kill. I raise a hand, pressing into their minds that we are _dominant,_ not to be trifled with. All but the alpha slink away – and he is easily convinced to follow his kin when my saber blade leaps from its hilt.

"Master Windu?" the boy calls. He seems…hesitant to approach. I have the distinct impression he was expecting somebody _else,_ and I am not a suitable replacement.

Too bad. "Get out of there," I order him. "Where are the other Feorians?"

"Where's Master Obi-Wan?" the boy demands.

As usual, no sense of protocol or propriety. His first priority is to report on the condition of any survivors, or to direct our attention to unknown dangers. On a mission, personal concerns come second, third, or never. "Where are the _Feorians?"_ I repeat, scowling down on him.

And blast it if the little scamp doesn't scowl right back up at me. I would swear that exact expression on his impudent face has been passed down generation to generation in Jinn's teaching line, like some kind of star-forsaken family heirloom. It's _provoking._

But before I can issue any censure, a dozen or so of the bedraggled younger tribesmen haul themselves from beneath the ice-crusted tram corpse. They look singularly sullen, and half-frozen. But – thank the Force- they appear to be more or less unharmed. I'll credit both the wreck and the lack of acute injury to Skywalker's skill – paradoxically, it takes a master pilot to handle a collision so beautifully. Not that I'll ever utter such praise in the boy's hearing; approbation of his recklessness is the last thing he needs. The planetary security officers round up the stragglers and chivvy them into their vehicles' passenger compartments without much trouble- Yonso's incendiary spirit seems to have been temporarily doused by his recent misadventures. The only one not slumped and shuffling is Skywalker himself.

"Where's Master Obi-Wan?" he demands yet again, steeling his nerve to address me boldly. A potent blend of alarm and suspicion swirls in the Force between us. "Why didn't he come with you? Is he okay?"

So. Our resident Chosen One is already so attuned to the Force that he can sense his master's distress at such distance? I suppose I should not be surprised. It's the _attachment_ underlying his question that is far more worrisome… but none of us is wholly immune from that temptation. "He will be." A terse answer will have to suffice; the speeders' drives are already revving, ready to carry us back to the relative warmth and safety of the Cultural Reservation. "Now get on board."

In another minute, we have left the defunct hover-train behind. Our craft's whining drive intakes and the Feorain's combined mutterings drown out the possibility of further conversation with my young charge.

That's just as well. I have much to think about.


	34. Chapter 34

**Inheritance**

* * *

34.

_Boshuda_. And I thought Master Obi-Wan's lectures were bad.

Master Windu made me stand outside in the freezing cold with him for like a bazillion hours or something before we got to come in here. He said a whole _lotta _stuff… but I don't really want to talk about it right now. I feel really weird inside like I did inside that Jabuur-weki cave.

'Cause I was just trying to make a good distraction, that's all. Master told me to do that. It's _his_ fault if the whole thing went all wrong_._ I wish Master Windu would maybe see that and he could give Master a big ol' lecture instead of me.

Or maybe he's busting me for Master's bad idea. I mean, Master got told off when I broke the rules before, so maybe this is the other way around. That's really not fair! Sometimes being a Jedi doesn't make _any sense._ None of this would have happened if they just let me come into that cave with them again, instead of making a distraction. That's what they should have let me do. I could handle it. Like a real Jedi.

"Can I talk to Master Obi-Wan now?" I ask. 'Cause it seems like the grilling is over and it's super freezing out here. Master Windu makes a frowny face and sighs and then he nods.

"I need to speak with the chieftain," he says. "_Don't _get into more trouble."

I like bust through the door as soon as he's gone. Inside the guest house it's super warm, and –

"Master!" I'm pretty happy to see him again. I mean, I sorta missed him when we were freezing out there and I was worried when he didn't show up to find me and I'd rather have his not-funny jokes and stuff than Master Windu's serious talk, any day.

"Anakin." He doesn't look so good, all wrapped up in his cloak and that Feorian blanket thing, the one the women all made for Master Qui-Gon, like he's cold even though it's super warm in here. And he looks like he was asleep a minute ago, or like he's sick. He's really tired, I can tell, and he's making my head hurt a little, like we're connected. It doesn't feel good. Master Windu's not here to be all grouchy about it so I run up and sorta bounce onto the mattress thingy next to him and give him a pretty big hug.

Mom mostly did that when I was sick. Not the bouncing part, but the other stuff.

Obi-Wan kinda shrugs away, real gentle, but still like he's not comfortable with me squeezing him. I forgot about Jedi not hugging. And maybe he's kinda sore, too. Oops. So I kinda stop, and wait. I can tell he's happy to see me, too, so why can't we just be normal and _say it?_

I'll help him out. "I'm really glad to be back," I say. See? It's not so bad and I don't think it's against the Code, not _really._

But he still doesn't say anything. He keeps it all smooshed down inside himself, prob'ly in the same place he keeps all the stuff he forgets on purpose. The thing about Obi-Wan is that you have to pay attention to what he doesn't say, really carefully. I had to figure that out on my own, but I'm getting pretty good at it. That's mostly why I don't pay so much attention to what he _does_ say sometimes.

"Are you okay, master? I can tell you're not, so don't try to trick me."

One of his eyebrows goes up. "If you already know, need you ask?"

Not fair! But I think he's joking again, 'cause his eyes are twinkling. So that's like him saying he's happy I'm not frozen to death out on the tundra. "Well," I say, the same flat way he always does, "I mean is the Council gonna abandon you on an asteroid now?"

He really liked that! I can tell! His face is totally dead calm, and his mouth is very straight like he's thinking it over all seriously. "That might be a welcome relief," he says, "So long as it was a _solitary_ marooning."

He's watching me to see if I get it. _Solitary?_… hey! I make a face at him. But one corner of his mouth twitches just a little and the Force is dancing like the fire now, and that headache kinda goes away. I think he's feeling a little better, cause we _did_ say it, only in a different kind of language.

It's like a secret code, just between me and Master.

See? We _are_ friends.

"Did you see the jabuur-weki?" I gotta know what happened, and Master Windu wouldn't tell me _anything._ "Did you fight it? I bet you _blitzed_ it, master!"

"I think it blitzed _me,_ " he says, with his voice all flat.

"Huh?" I didn't mean to squeak like that, it just sorta came out. "It got you? You mean like those other guys that got zapped? But you're okay, master, right? And hey! You saw it! You must have 'cause you fought it! What's it look like? Does it really have claws that snatch and jaws that bite and stuff?" There's a whole _hoocha_ lot of stuff I want to know about the _jabbur-weki_ and now Obi-Wan's like an expert or something.

But he's not as excited about it as I am. He wasn't really excited about creaming that Sith guy either. Even when everybody at the Temple started calling him the Sith Killer. He _really_ didn't like that. I think it would be _wizard_ to have a nickname and all, kinda like being the Boonta Eve Podrace Champion… but Master Obi-Wan was all serious and sorta in a bad mood about it for a while. Master Bant said I shouldn't bug him about it 'cause it was a _hollow victory_ or something like that.

"The _jabuur-weki_ isn't a thing, properly speaking, Anakin. It's more like… a function of its environment."

That's how he starts explaining it. And it makes absolutely _no_ sense. I can feel my nose wrinkle up the way that used to make Mom laugh. But I can't really help it. "What do you mean?"

So then Master tries to explain it all the way. And he's doing a really good job and trying to be super patient and all, and I'm paying real close attention with no distractions or anything, but it _still_ doesn't make much sense.

It's kinda like this: The Force is everywhere and binds everything together and flows through us and gives us our strength and all that stuff. But sometimes there's a place in the universe where it sorta gathers – like the way sand piles up against the south-facing walls after a storm, I guess. A _drift._ A _dune_ in the Force. I'm not allowed to say there's more of it, cause that's a _fallacious misrepresentation. _ It's just stronger in some places, like a black hole is an imploded star's mass. And it _warps_ thoughts and feelings around it, which makes visions. I kinda don't want to go to Ilum after all even though it's on my list of places to visit. Master also says that _some_ people think a vergence – that's this weird strong spot in the Force – could be centered around a person, too. He looked at me funny when he said it. And then I asked him if he thought that too and he said that he was not wise enough to give an answer and did it really matter?

I guess not. I just thought it was interesting, sorta. But anyway, Master Windu thinks the jabuur-weki's cave is a vergence, for the _Dark Side. _ That's totally rugged, except Master doesn't think so. I can tell. And he says that means that fears and anger can be warped into a pro-… a pro-something, which is like an illusion that channels the energy of the vergence. It's really complicated, like I said. I think he said a _conduit._ I kinda lost focus there for a minute but it _wasn't_ a distraction. It was just like a circuit overload like when a transceiver blows on a broadband frequency. He said a bunch of other stuff but the main thing is that the _jabuur-weki_ is the pro-whatever of the Feorians' collective racial memory or something, and –get this – it can _blitz _people with lightning.

Whoa. That's intense.

"What about a vorpal blade?" I ask. I mean, in the old song that RuRu taught me, that's how the hero wipes out the monster. With his _laser sword._

Master looks at the fire for a long time. "You can't fight _fear_ with a 'saber," he decides. He sounds really tired again. I wonder if that 's what he tried to do in the cave. It musta worked a little bit at least, though, 'cause he's still alive and all. And Master is a _wizard_ swordsman.

I really want to talk some more but maybe we shouldn't 'cause he looks pretty wiped out and he hasn't got around to lecturing me about the distraction yet. It's funny but I think _he's_ kinda distracted by the whole jabuur-weki conversation. But that's okay with me.

"I need to meditate," Master Obi-Wan says.

Big surprise there.

I try to scoot away real quiet and slow but he catches me with one hand.

"You too," he orders, and _poodoo! _There's no getting out of it now.

"Yes, master," I sigh.


	35. Chapter 35

**Inheritance**

* * *

35.

I'm perfectly fit.

Well. Enough to take Anakin for a walk, anyhow. Another minute in a closed space with my fidgeting and garrulous Padawan would surely prove detrimental to my mental stability – and so, this is just what the healers ordered. Thank the Force there aren't any of that disreputable profession skulking in the shadows here. The jabuur-weki is quite enough inconvenience for the time being.

"I don't get why I have to do it blind-folded," Anakin whines, lower lip jutting in a surly suggestion of ill-use.

"Be glad you aren't gagged as well," I advise him. A fine idea, if it were not dangerously close to violating the Code. Even Qui-Gon never went that far, and he was a master of ingenious and subtle discipline. On one occasion, as I recall, he –

But I don't wish to recall. So I don't. Anakin dutifully prances along beside me, walking backward, his eyes covered in a scrap of cloth. The exercise is all too easy, despite the rough terrain and the unexpected obstacles: rock shards and clots of earth, a dip here and a hole there.

"On your hands," I decide. He'll never work off his excess energy at this rate.

"Can I take off the blindfold yet?" he hopefully inquires.

"I think not." As though. Any Temple-raised youngling would have known the answer to _that_ without asking. I will admit to a certain immoderate pleasure in being the one on _this_ side of the age-old game. Anakin's pout grows more pronounced, but he wobbles up into a shaky handstand and starts forward, the tip of his tongue stuck earnestly between his teeth as he struggles to keep balance and awareness of his surroundings without the advantage of sight. I slow my gait to match his new and slightly unsteady pace. The air is frigid as ever, but the guest house was starting to grow stuffy. I believe one of the Feorian crones managed to sneak in and throw some vile-smelling herb on the fire, one with distinctly soporific qualities.

Anakin and I escaped just after morning meal, while Master Windu was occupied with the tribal council. Another delegation from the Reservations Committee and the planetary government arrived at dawn, this time to haggle over a replacement vehicle for the Feorians' wrecked tram. The dispute was petty, and therefore pitched. I have observed that those who are placed in charge of insignificant affairs often fulfill their office with a tyrannical zeal unmatched in any sovereign power with real influence. At the top levels, it is rather incompetence and selfish corruption that reign supreme, as in the case of the Galactic Senate.

"I can tell what you're thinking!" Anakin exclaims, almost over-balancing. I grab his ankle to prevent his fall. "You think all those politician guys are full of bugsquat!"

"Focus," I command. He cannot see my smile.

"I'm _trying!"_ he protests.

"There is no try. Now straighten your spine, concentrate, and keep going. We're not yet halfway around the perimeter."

"Master, when am I _ever_ gonna need to do this on a mission?"

Ah, the perennial challenge, issued by vexed Padawans everywhere. "When we are sent to Malastare to ratify a treaty between two warring tribes of Dugs. As you may know, they all walk upon their hands, with their feet dangling in mid-air. It is _very_ important for a diplomat to conform to local custom."

He teeters forward a few more paces. "How come you're not practicing, then?" he wants to know. "Are you too weak right now?" Another few paces. "I'd like to race. But it's okay if you don't…. I know it would be kinda embarrassing to get beaten by your own Padawan."

"Are you so confident of victory?" And don't you dare tell me about the star-forsaken Boonta Eve Podrace, either. Not _again_.

"I would win," he tells me, blithely. "It's just true."

"Only in your mind, my deluded young friend." My cloak lands in a heap across the nearest structure, an emptied crate left outside a Feorian hut. The earth is cold as hard-packed ice beneath my splayed fingers, and the sharp wind cuts straight through my tunics as I roll upward into position, finding my center of gravity with the ease of long habit. I inhale deeply, ignoring the twinges and aches this provokes.

"You gotta keep your eyes shut, so it's fair, okay?"

"Fine." I'll show him _fair._

"Ready, steady, go!" Tatooine's most juvenile and braggardly podracing champion hollers, and the race is on.

Blast it, if he isn't _fast._ The wretched imp was only pretending to have difficulty with this exercise. Who taught him such under-handed tactics, the deceptive little manipulator? _That_ calls for a swift lesson. And besides, he has no idea what he's up against. I was trouncing Garen Muln at this game before _Anakin_ was even born.

The contest is close, I will admit. After all, I'm not at my best. We scurry, upside down, around a good stretch of the village outskirts, neck and neck, vying for a much-coveted lead, until Anakin's over-enthusiasm carries him slightly ahead and directly across my path. Jedi reflexes or not, our race abruptly ends in a somersaulting heap, and then a most undignified sprawl flat upon our backs on Outer Gola's freezing rocky plains.

It _is_ funny. From a certain point of view.

"You don't laugh very much," Anakin observes a minute later.. "I've hardly ever heard you before."

What? Surely he exaggerates? I haul myself upright. The morning sun glints winkingly upon the angles of the village roofs, gilding their rusting, battered contours with fleeting grace. The sting of the frosty air in my lungs is a cleansing hand, purging away the clinging dross of illness. Long shadows stain the earth purple where they lie, starkly beautiful. It is a desolate world, full of nothing but light. And dark. Like the future, like the past. Like the Force itself.

"You weren't paying attention, then," I chide. Gently.

He is not fooled by the evasion. "It's okay," he tells me. "I won't tell anybody."

I didn't want a Padawan. Not yet. Not so soon. I had an apprentice _before _ I was Knighted, in all but formality. I would not have wished it to be so; I would have wanted _time,_ time to learn all those things Qui-Gon so bluntly said I had still to learn. I would, in my heart, have desired the freedom to exercise that _headstrong_ character he so openly critiqued. But in this moment, simple fact overbalances desire by a measureless weight of tolerance. And though I may be headstrong and I undoubtedly still have much to learn… I _am_ capable of accepting what _is, _ by the will of the Force.

"Master?"

He's taken off the blindfold without permission, but I let it go. "Hm?"

Anakin's face tightens into a comical grimace. "Um…" he informs me, blue eyes darting toward the village boundaries. "Uh-oh."

And there, on cue, strides Master Windu. His dark eyes settle upon us with a glint of disbelieving humor, and his shadow reaches us long before he does. He stops, arms akimbo.

"If you gentlemen are finished… _training,"_ he rumbles, skewering us both with the signature Windu stare, "I require your presence in the longhouse. There's been another unfortunate development."


	36. Chapter 36

**Inheritance**

* * *

36.

The Skywalker boy trots along at his master's heels, face turned up expectantly, focus completely centered and calm. I've never _seen_ the Padawan in such a state of perfect Jedi serenity – poised without tension, alert without anxiety. And Kenobi echoes his balance, striding confidently along with his little satellite in tow, exuding a quiet strength I wasn't aware he'd been missing.

It's a subtle but marked change. And a moment ago the pair of them were tangled in a heap upon the ground, like a pair of silly schoolboys at a private Coruscanti prep academy. I would have remarked upon the lapse in conduct were it not such a welcome relief to hear Kenobi _laugh _ again. Such an open display is always a rarity among the Jedi; we do not indulge in wanton levity. But there was a time when the dojo or the Temple corridors might be occasionally and unexpectedly graced with a musical burst of wicked delight, generally followed by an exclamation from Jinn- something along the lines of _Wretched brat! _ or possibly _That's enough, Padawan!_

Again, I wasn't aware until now that this was somehow missing. Has the Council been _so very_ repressive and grim in all these months since Naboo? I steal another sideways glance at my companions. At the outset of this journey, I was wont to blame Skywalker for Kenobi's change in demeanor since his own master's demise- or, failing that, the real if inappropriate scars of grief.

And now I wonder whether it was our own doing all along. _My_ own doing. _Fierfek._ Old Yoda saw it, didn't he? He'll be immensely pleased to hear that I learned my lesson. Here I planned to intervene and set things aright between master and student, and I end by discovering that the only thing required is an alleviation of Council pressure.

They've discovered their own balance – with or without assistance. I stand humbled.

"Master?" Skywalker asks his teacher, quietly. "Is a _development_ like a _situation?" _

Kenobi glances down briefly. "Nowhere near. It's a bit worse than a _difficulty_ but not as bad as a _complication_."

"Oh." His Padawan nods, diligently storing away this information with the bright sobriety of childhood.

And though Kenobi's face is composed in a well-practiced mask of academic abstraction, I can still feel the smirk, lurking in the Force just beyond the veils of physical expression.

_Very funny, boys._ "Well, Padawan," I inform the youngest member of our party. "Had you opted to _participate_ in the Legislative District tour last week rather than gallivanting in a scrap pile, you would find yourself well-prepared for the ugly ruckus we're about to encounter."

"In the elders' longhouse?" the boy asks. "I'm used to it, Master Windu sir. I don't need to see the Senate in session. Master says its just like a bar brawl in Mos Espa anyways, an' I've seen _tons_ of those."

I cock an eyebrow at the young Knight striding beside me, but Kenobi returns the silent question with another bland gaze, one that challenges me to contradict his assessment of the Republic's democratic ruling body, or his decision to share that opinion openly with his apprentice.

He's entitled to his opinion, and to teach as he sees fit. After all, he is no longer a Padawan himself; he's earned the privileges of rank. And if there is any outstanding disagreement between us, we'll just have to settle it in the dojo like peers of the Order.

I look forward to it.

Of course, that doesn't mean I can't throw my weight around in the meantime.

"Skywalker," I suggest, authoritatively. "Why don't you go fetch your master's _cloak _ from wherever he's abandoned it – again."

Two pair of startled blue eyes widen at this pronouncement: one in open delight and the other in mortification.

"Yes, Master Windu!" the Padawan chirps, almost prissily. I'll _wager_ he's eager to please me, after that little talk we had yesterday.

I direct a pointed look at Kenobi. It's not far above freezing out here and he _is_ still recovering, whatever nonsense he may claim to the contrary. I think I see why the man has such an ill reputation among the Temple's venerable healers. I have a feeling that quirk in his character won't see any improvement with time, either.

"_You_ can help me break up the bar brawl in the council-house," I tell him. "And no sabers. I don't want anyone to lose an arm."

He has the good sense to limit his reply to a demure _yes, master_. We cover the distance between here and there in a handful of strides, and enter the hazy confines of the longhouse to witness a scene of unbridled chaos, or at least the Feorian approximation of the same. Thank the Force most the government officials fled the premises at the first sign of trouble. On one side of the smoke-filled room – ordinary wood fire smoke this time, mercifully – the chieftain and his advisors are in high dudgeon, throatily accusing the younger generation of rank rebellion and purposeful sabotage. Across the way, Yonso and his followers shout and gesticulate freely, calling their elders a senile gaggle of hide-bound and unimaginative buffoons. And in the center of the wide space, the dispute has come to blows, a few private debates having devolved into scuffling fistfights.

Kenobi and I split the difference, each taking one side of the strife-ridden company. There's no point in trying diplomacy when both parties are in such an irrational state; there's little hope of swaying such a lot of fools with mind influence. Without any overt show of force or weapons, it takes us a good ten minutes to herd the disputants out opposite ends of the meeting-house and away to their respective dwellings. We have to break up a few heated exchanges in the village courtyard, too, and then station ourselves in its midst to discourage any new outbreak of hostilities.

"Lovely," Kenobi grumbles, as we stand back to back, peering balefully at any of the aggressive Feorians who peek out from doorways or windows, looking to rejoin the fray.

Skywalker comes jogging back with a heavy brown bundle in his arms. "And look," he announces cheerfully. "There was this busted repulsor drive unit out by the tram shed. I guess they won't be using it anymore, right?"

"The authorities agreed to donate a new vehicle," I concur. "That old model won't be worth anything to them now, even if it was reparable."

"Can I keep it?" the boy asks hopefully, clutching the rusting piece of junk to his chest.

His young master shrugs into the cloak and rolls his eyes. "Yes, Anakin, you may keep your pathetic stray life-form. Just don't foist it off upon _me_."

Neither Skywalker nor I quite gets the reference, but Kenobi seems to derive a dark private amusement from it.

And as we stand sentinel another half hour to be sure the Feorian's tempers have cooled, I have time to reflect that this entire group of villagers, and their troubles, are a large bundle of pathetic life-forms foisted off upon the galaxy at large by Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn. _Fierfek,_ that man had a talent for attracting trouble.

Eventually, when the cold becomes unbearable even for Jedi, and the disturbance in the Force has smoothed to a collective sullen resentment, we retreat into the shelter of our own primitive lodging. But I can sense that the trouble is not over – not at all.


	37. Chapter 37

**Inheritance**

* * *

37.

I just want to be alone for a minute.

Master Obi-Wan said I could. He gets it- at least, sometimes. He needs to be alone sometimes, too. I think that's what he's doing when he meditates, sorta, but also he goes for a walk or he disappears to the dojo to do like a bazillion saber drills and stuff. That's where he does his thinking, when he's practicing with his saber how to blitz bad guys and all. Pretty funny, huh? I mean, when I get my 'saber – when I build it, I mean, and I'm allowed to carry it and practice outside of boring ol' little kid class – I'm not gonna be _thinking_ during a sparring session. Feel, don't think. That's what they say at the Temple a lot, but maybe Master Obi-Wan maybe didn't learn that one so good. He's always mulling stuff over in his head. You can like practically _see _him doing it. There's this face he makes, but you'd have to see it to get what I mean.

Anyway, at least he let me come out here and work on this busted repulsor. Fixing things is when I do my thinking.

And know what? I used to think Lorra and those guys were _wizard._ Cause they're like me and all. Except now I'm not sure. They were all quiet and gave me these angry looks when we came back from the tundra, like they're still mad at me. I can feel it inside of me, too. It makes me _mad._ It _wasn't _my fault, and how come they're all so stupid? It's like they are the banthas, all stupid and running in a herd cause they're scared. And what's the point of being free if you're going to be a poodoo head and only listen to Yonso like he's your owner or something? And the older guys, they're all following what the chief says, too, like they're still slaves and they have to do what the boss says. It's like they got freed and all but they don't even know it. And they're all scared to death of this _jabuur-weki_ thing, too, and it's like the monster is the real boss and they're a buncha scared slaves of it, like they have to keep it happy, too. The chief says they all have to do stuff the old way or the _jabuur-weki _ will get mad, and Yonso says they all have to keep the crystal cave a secret and listen to him or the _jabuur-weki_ will get mad, and _I _say why are they all so scared and stupid?

This damper insulation is warped, that's why the pressurizer can't keep a stable reading. It just needs to be stripped and planed. I could do that with this micro-driver, even though it'll take like forever.

"Hey! There he is!"

Uh-oh. Here comes Lorra and some of the other guys, the older ones. They're a lot bigger than me, but I don't give a pile of bugsquat. I'll blitz 'em if they try anything.

"You're a big boot-sucker," one of the older boys tells me. He's trying to make me mad.

"What are you talking about?" I know how to deal with stupid chisszk heads There's plenty of _them_ on Tatooine.

"I mean you do whatever your boss tells you, huh?" the Feorian guy says, all full of himself. "Like crash our tram and try to kill us. You Jedi are working for the chief. Well, Yonso sees through that. And we see through _you_."

I hate the way he says that! It's just like when old Yoda said they could all see through me, when I was talking to the Council the first time! 'Cept I'm not afraid of these meekah-eaters. They can kiss my doofa. I stand up real calm the way master does. Maybe I should just sorta take my cloak off too so they know I'm not afraid to fight them. There's like eight of them, too, but I don't care.

I'm a _Jedi._

"You're a little slave boy, not a Jedi," Lorra sneers.

I don't know what happens next. It's just that Lorra said that, and he used to be my friend, and he's a chuba-doof son of a vetch 'cause I am _not_ a slave, I am Anakin, and I am a _person, _and I am a person who is teaching him a choobazzi big lesson _right now._ I'll shut him up _for good_ if he says –

And then there's like a whole pile of us, eight of them and one of me except the _Force_ is on my side and I'm way better than I used to be even on Tatooine, cause I'm getting way more powerful now that Master's teaching me and its like there' at least eight of me and I feel really really excited and kinda terrified just like I did in the cave and the Force is like a _sandstorm,_ all hot and screaming inside of me and –

"_Anakin!"_

And like _all_ the Feorian guys go flying off of me and I'm lying there and the I can't even see the sun because Master Obi-Wan is blocking it off and you should _see_ the Force burning around him. I mean, you can't see it but it's there all right. It's _wizard, _ and it's _scary. _ I might be just a little bit scared of him. Even though I'm a Jedi.

'Cause he's a _real_ Jedi. And he is _not _ happy.

"…Master?"

The Feorian guys are all cringing and crawling back to their feet.

"Nyah!" Lorra shouts at me, even though he's running away like a filthy krayt-egg sucking _sleemo, _that stupid poodoo-face _barve. _"You're busted now, little slave boy! We don't call _any man_ 'master'!" And he's running away and I try to jump up to _crisp_ him but I can't move.

I think maybe Obi-Wan's holding me down, with the Force.

"Let go!" I scream at him. Didn't he hear that? Doesn't he care?

One or two of the Feorian guys are still standing there, just staring with their big ugly mouths open, like a dead grog on a stick.

"You want to go home," Master says, and they kinda turn and stumble away, all obedient.

I kinda wipe my face off and Master stops holding me down and I'm just _so_ mad. "Didn't you _hear_ him?" My voice kinda breaks. "He's full of _boshuda!"_

Now Obi-Wan kneels down next to me. He's still a little bit scary, but he's also a little worried. I can tell. "It isn't healthy for you to be here," he says. Whatever that means. "The Force is very imbalanced, and it's getting worse. You feel anger, Padawan, because –"

"I'm mad cause Lorra _insulted_ me!" I holler. I didn't mean to yell, it just came out that way and besides, it's all Lorra's fault. "You would be mad too if he said that to you!"

His eyebrows go up. "No, I would feel pity for him. And I do. Lorra is young, and is deprived of many privileges. He does not understand, Anakin."

I'm still mad at Lorra, no matter what he says.

"And I am _honored_ to have called a man 'master,'" he goes on, like he's ignoring how mad I am no matter what. "There are days when I wish I still could," he adds, real quiet like he's not talking just to me anymore. And his voice is all soft like it only get sometimes and all of a sudden I just feel tired and sick, not so mad anymore.

The thing about Master Obi-Wan is it's really hard to argue with him, 'cause he's just too good at it and he doesn't play fair by any rules.

It's all quiet for a while and we don't say anything. And then I remember about the fight. "I'm busted, huh?" I ask. 'Cause fighting is _way_ against the Jedi Code.

"That," Master says with his voice all flat, "is a gross understatement."


	38. Chapter 38

**Inheritance**

* * *

38.

I take one last look at my very chastised and morose Padawan, and decide to exit the shelter. The kicked-akk-puppy face he has affected will avail him nothing; after all, _I_ am not the one with a fatal weakness for pathetic life forms. I simply don't wish to witness his melodramatic display of self-pity. Besides, it is my turn to take a watch in the Feorian village. Tension runs high among the villagers, and the Dark seems to coil like a mist, seep like a toxic ooze all about us.

This is to be credited to my actions in the _jabuur-weki's _lair. By breaking the focal point of the vergence, I permitted the dark energy of this place to flow unfettered, unanchored. It is difficult to say whether this is an improvement or not, but I did what I felt I must. And there is no undoing what has been done. We must simply deal with the consequences.

I meet Master Windu halfway across the square. He's surrounded by the solicitous crones whom I encountered earlier, and I cannot suppress a small flare of amusement at his expense: I see that the widows and old maids of the village have found an eligible subject for their fawning attentions – one much closer in age to themselves. His eyes narrow minutely as I approach, but I purposefully do not meet his gaze.

The changing of the guard is effected with ease, though the Feorian women do trail rather hopefully after him as he departs. Master Windu is extraordinarily strong in the Force; I cannot help but wonder – idly – whether the insistent women will inveigle him into blessing their amulets, and what eventual effect such a benediction might …

Well, never mind.

I rein my wandering thoughts back to the present moment, for I sense a familiar if unwelcome presence lingering on the outskirts of the village – one distinctly _not_ Feorian. I was under the impression that all the planetary officials and outsiders had left, long ago… but I see now that I was mistaken.

"Why, hello there," the self-proclaimed expert on Feorian culture greets me, raising his hand in salute as though hailing an old friend. "Glad you Jedi are hanging on here a bit… wearing out your welcome, eh?" He unwraps a small package and fingers its aromatic contents.

Bacci. Stars' end. "There seems to be need of a peacekeeper here," I observe, as he thrusts the vile wad into his mouth and commences chewing. A small trail of brown liquid escapes one corner of his mouth.

"Yeah," he snorts. "Those young riff-raff are nothing but trouble. They've got no respect for their own roots. And it's up to them to pass down the tradition, keep the spark alive, you know? Think about it, wouldya: all it takes is _one_ generation to destroy an entire culture. And all it takes is _one_ bad seed in that generation to start the ball rolling. Just _one,_ master Jedi." He shakes his head, chomping contemplatively. "Damn pity."

I wish I knew why his off-hand remarks seem to curdle my very blood_._ It must be the imbalance in the Force here: I banish the _bad feeling_ with an effort.

"You're not much older than that idiot Yonso," he continues. "You gonna be the one to bring the edifice of your whole Jedi tradition down in a shambles?"

Force _forbid_.

"Or you gonna be the one to carry the torch, eh? Protector of the sacred flame and all that?" He spits emphatically, creating a small yellow-stained crater in a pocket of unthawed frost.

For the love of…. But I am a trained diplomat, am I not? There is a use for _every_ sentient being, some wisdom to be gained. "You disapprove of the younger Feorians' views," I reply, evenly. "But they only wish to obtain an education much like that you have enjoyed yourself, and to broaden their horizons."

"Line their pockets, more like," the fellow harrumphs. "All this talk of university and moving off-world, giving up the old ways and whatnot – you know what that's about, don't you? They see the credits. They want cash, luxuries, the power to buy aircars and fancy clothes and girls. The high life. Most these young rebels want to cast off their traditions so they can jump both feet forward into modern decadence. Believe me. Seen it before."

"You would prefer they remain poverty-stricken and discontent? This is hardly a utopia." My gesture encompasses the sagging buildings, the frozen earth, the overcast skies.

He shrugs and spits again, this time spattering a gritty trail across the hard-packed stones of the village square. "Bet you your family jewels this revolution of Yonso's ain't so idealistic as you might think. Those youngsters found a source of cash hereabouts. Don't know what- but they did, believe me. This all comes down to money. Most things do."

His cynicism is revolting… and yet, there is truth in what he says. An image of the ithyll-packed cave rises unbidden into my imagination, its slick walls lined – quite literally – with glittering wealth. Marshak, the greedy Outer Rim warlord who owned these people before their recent liberation, was the center of a well-established smuggling ring. It is likely that Yonso is quite familiar with ithyll, and its current market value. On the other hand, I would indeed _bet my family jewels_ that my jaded friend here would not hesitate to capitalize on such a discovery.

He is surely not so naïve as to suppose the Feoorians could _keep_ such wealth? I raise my brows. "I doubt the terms of their land grant would permit such a … cashing-in," I object, gauging his reaction.

He chews a few times more, then dribbles a large clot of bacci-saturated fluid onto the ground between our feet. "Nah," he admits. "They got rights to live here in perpetuity and all that, but the land still belongs to Outer Gola. The land and any natural resources contained therein, of course. Presidency ain't stupid. That's how these things work."

I see. "They can benefit from agriculture, though," I suggest. The barren soil likely provides little more than subsistence farming, if that. The Presidency was indeed generous. "And they make handicrafts from stone and so forth."

He nods, chewing quietly again. "Yeah, yeah. Horticultural products and artifacts produced from harvested or collected natural substances are considered property of the laborer. Galactic Trade Law provision." He sweeps a hand over the squalid dwellings and the empty plains beyond. "It's a _world_ of abundant opportunity out here. All they've got, believe me, is their tradition. _That's_ the ticket. _That's _what will eventually pay off. Hand-crafts, exotic items - huge market for stuff like that in the Core. Yonso's following a shooting star – ain't gonna get him nowhere. And the chief's too stubborn to consider setting up his people as a trade franchise." He sucks in a tell-tale breath and I step aside reflexively as he sends another comet-tail of filth sailing through the air to land with an audible splatter against a small boulder.

"How… unfortunate," I remark.

"Yeah," he agrees, absently. Then, snapping to attention, "You ever seen the _weavings_ these women make? Now those are worth a fortune, to someone who has the right connections."

I abstain from making any reply.

And eventually- the conversation having run dry, so to speak - the man ambles away, saluting me casually, almost mockingly, as he wanders back toward the village outskirts and his waiting vehicle. I watch him go, pondering the problem of the Feorians: their isolation, poverty, internecine strife, and the treasure which does not, legally, belong to them at all. Part of me is inclined to lend ear to Anakin's repeated lament. As he would say, if this is the conundrum in which the tribe's people find themselves, then how truly are they _free?_

And how truly have we Jedi helped them?


	39. Chapter 39

**Inheritance**

* * *

39.

This is the part of peacekeeping that I _don't_ like.

I can feel the resentment of the younger generation, the outrage of the older. The twofold ire of the Feorians has ensnared the whole village in its impalpable coils, setting family against family, friend against friend. The Dark seeps in the corners of shadows, at the outskirts of the dwelling-places' circle. I stand sentinel in the center, waiting for the subtle, persistent trickle of wrath -of whispered lies - to take its toll.

Sometime tonight, it will come to a violent confrontation. The Dark side is on the loose here, a splintered band of predators prowling and creeping at the edges of awareness. The jabuur-weki has not returned, but the scattered strands of its formless body are being drawn back inward, an inevitable undoing of the diaspora in the cave. It's only a matter of time before it returns in full force - and in the meanwhile, its malignant influence bends the minds of every sentient here.

Yes, even mine.

The Dark is delusional if it thinks I will rise to the bait, but it teases me nonetheless, taunting me with cold memory. And I have lived enough years to have earned my full share of _those. _ I stand firm, waiting, while the wisps and tatters of Darkness fling their jibes and insults at my mind, stirring up the muddy slime of recollection until the pools of thought are murky with regret, or sorrow.

It is cold here on Outer Gola, but it was hot and humid that day on Korun… my skin sticky with clotted perspiration and grime, slick with gore…

A wind rises here to play at my cloak hem, but that day on Melus the wind was invisible, a howling storm of loss. I could not separate my voice from the keening wails of widows, of mothers….

Here the night clothes the land in darkness; there, on Ilum, night fell endlessly until the crystals fretting the cave roof were the pitiless stars burning in their empty thrones, and I was falling among them, plummeting into infernal evening without hope of end….

Wood fires decorate the air here with twining columns of blue… but in my day I have seen and scented the bitter pillars of funerary fire, again and again, until the leaping tongues seem to dance a mocking carillion, a mute and tormented ecstasy, one inviting despair….

I have killed both men and monsters.

I have crushed the hopes of mere children, broken the hearts of burdened elders.

I have been the face of terror, the cowled visage of the unknown.

I have ridden the Dark like a beast, whipped and chained it… wrestled and fought it, tooth and claw and vital screaming need…. And emerged merciless conqueror.

I have faced evil and seen _myself._

The Dark throws these jests and accusations against me without respite. But they are nothing, for the Dark itself, beneath its flowing mantle of pomp and false promises, is nothing. It is hollow void and untruth, a power that feeds on negation, on absence. The Light has no use for its lies. I turn my back on it, once again, and stand firm. It will not triumph.

Not on my watch.

And here are the Feorians, as though sent expressly by the Dark to attempt one last assault upon my defenses. They approach from opposite ends of the wide village, each group armed with flickering torches, with rude implements which I can only imagine they intend as weapons. These people have no skills, no history of martial _anything._ What brews here is nothing but an amateur and disorderly riot. Nonetheless, it could be dangerous to its participants.

They halt when they reach the center, murmuring in confusion when they see me. Both sides are knots of sullen and explosive anger, hot eddies in the universal energy. They draw up in ranks, faced off like the pieces of a dejarik board at the game's commencement.

"What do you think you're doing?" I demand.

Yonso and his belligerent comrades only cast me hateful glances. The chieftain steps forward, shaking his staff at the malfeasants across the way. "We have come to stamp out this rebellion and madness! These young upstarts have stirred up the avenging spirit of our people. They have brought the jabuur-weki down upon us, with their foolishness and their disrespect for the old ways. We will punish them and appease the monster. The terror must come to an end."

"You will bring an end to terror by imposing more?" I ask. "That is no part of your cherished folkways."

A rumble of protest and impatience meets my words.

Yonso is emboldened by his elder's speech. He thrusts forward, waving a torch. Sparks spill like rain about him, a bright scattering of angry words. "Thou speak of peace, Jedi, but it was thou who sent thy boy to kill us on the plains! He lured us into a trap and thou pretended to come to our rescue. Thou are with the chieftain, one of those who conspire to oppress us. We will not have it anymore! We are taking over this village! It is time doddering idiots no longer ruled the Feorians! The future belongs to us, to the young!"

"And your first act as new ruler will be one of violence?" He cowers back when I address him, and his followers cluster round, a protective circle.

"Blasphemers!" the chief shouts.

"Murderers! Oppressors!" Yonso's crew retorts. A cold wind puts out several of the torches, extinguishing them in a single bitter gust.

"The jabber-weki will come for thee!" someone wails.

"It is coming now!" someone else hollers.

The assembly disintegrates into panic, and there – beyond the borders of the village, the Dark takes on form, coalescing into a textured shadow as though sculpted on a potter's wheel, given shape by the mingled wrath of these people.

"Go back to your homes!" I command them, summoning the Force's aid to give power to my words. Light rushes to meet the gathering storm, battle-ready, armed with coruscating bolts of fire. I swear the very ground below the _thing_ out there flickers with the seeds of deadly lightning.

The Feorians scatter, fear driving them back into their separate shelters like children before the roar of distant thunder.

And I am left peering out into the gloom where the _jabuur-weki_ waits, growing into itself, into a thing with place and form. My saber's hilt is in my hand, and my blood is coursing with a rare fire, the chained Dark straining for release, for direction.

It rises higher, impossibly high, a great wave of nameless power, without origin or end, rushing forward like a tidal wave, crashing down upon me with the weight of centuries, the groaning cries of a hundred generations.

I raise my saber high and stand firm in the Light as the thing rises, blots out the sky and descends in black majesty.

My saber screams; the _jabuur-weki_ howls; the night explodes with fear and wrath, and my blood rages in my veins; the Dark reaches out with snatching claws and grinding jaws, shadow-winged, foul, putrescent, overwhelming…

And rushes past. I stand upon the firm shores of Light, of balance, and the power of chaos crashes over and around, breaking on the cliffs, shattered to fading oblivion.

There is no emotion, there is peace. There is no passion, there is serenity. There is no ignorance, there is knowledge. There is no death, there is the Force.

And when I again look out upon the shadows beyond, the monster has unfurled and dissolved, the source of its power depleted and released. Flickers of rampant lightning still coil along the earth inits wake, electric footprints left by an unseen presence. It is not yet strong enough, not yet an entity in its own right. Without a concrete focal point, it is indeed a peregrinating wraith, an illusion.

But I know, with the deep certainty of instinct, of hard-earned wisdom, that it will return soon. And that it will be stronger.

And we must be ready.


	40. Chapter 40

**Inheritance**

* * *

40.

I'm no way going back to sleep.

I hate it when I get nightmares like that. Not 'cause I'm scared. It's just, they kinda hurt. Inside. Like there's this jabuur-weki thing inside of me and its trying to rip its way out and its claws that snatch and jaws that catch are all shredding and clawing at me until I'm like all torn up and mangled and stuff. And it _hurts._

That's why I was yelling, 'cause it hurts.

I dreamed a lot of stuff, but mostly about leaving home and being a slave. In my dream I was saying goodbye to Mom and she said not to look back like she did in real life… only when I was walking after Master Qui-Gon I forgot what she said and I _did_ look back. And Mom turned into this horrible thing all black with a beak and claws and dark wings and skin hanging off its bones and yellow eyes and ribs that were all closed like fingers around this beating heart and it wasn't her at all it was a _thing, _a _bad_ thing – and I was shouting for Master Qui-Gon to come and stop it but he kept walking the other way and calling my name like I was s'posed to come, but he kept getting thinner and thinner – I mean, like light was shining through him until he wasn't there any more - and then that _thing_ was chasing me.

And I was flying my podracer to get away and it was _chasing_ me. Only the race wasn't fun it was horrible. And no matter how fast I tried to go the monster kept up with me and it was saying my name too like it knew me and it was pretending to be Mom but it wasn't, not really. And then I crashed. And the thing jumped on top of me and I was fighting it really hard and punching and kicking and screaming and stuff. And it kept shouting my name, louder and louder until I sorta woke up, all sweaty and cold and my heart going all crazy hoocha fast.

And at first I thought the monster was real and it really got me 'cause it was still holding onto my arms and all so I kicked it super hard in the belly except that's when it said _Blast!_ just the same way Master always does and then I kinda stopped because you know what? That _was_ him, not the monster at all.

"For stars' _sake,_ Anakin." That's what Master Obi-Wan said right then, 'cause I think I nailed him, like right in the stomach, and he was kinda rubbing his hand there, like it hurt or something. And his voice was a little bit rough, you know, like if you get your wind knocked out.

I'm a pretty good kicker. I can take care of myself in a fight.

Then I told him to go away and leave me alone 'cause Jedi aren't s'posed to have nightmares and I don't want a stupid ol' lecture right now. And he kinda did. At least, I think he did.

But I didn't really – I mean, I just meant – oh wait. Here he comes again. He just got up and went outside for a moment. Maybe he had to… _you know_. But he's back now and he's all shining again – not on the outside I mean but in the Force, like he would blitz that dream monster thing if it came in here. I shouldn't have been such a baby about that stupid dream.

He sits down next to me and tries to un-mess his hair with one hand but it doesn't really work, and them he sticks his arms into opposite sleeves of his robe, which means it's cold but he's gonna stay for a minute right here next to me. I better wipe my face off before he sees that my eyes leaked a little bit. "Master?"

"There's no shame in it, Anakin," he says. I really hate it when he reads my mind, but I think he's not ever gonna stop so I just have to get used to it. When's he gonna teach me to shield so I can keep other Jedi from poking their noses in my business? I bet he did that all the time when he was a Padawan and Master Qui-Gon couldn't see what he was thinking so easy.

He snorts, like a laugh that didn't come out all the way. I wonder what he thinks is so funny?

"I had a horrible dream," I tell him, all suddenly. I hate it when my voice gets all wobbly like that, but Master doesn't notice. "I have them a lot, but they're really bad here."

"I know," he says.

Whoa. That's not really what I thought he would say and how does he know, anyway? I think he's just saying that to make me feel better, maybe. His eyes go sideways and then come back to me. That means he's thinking about something else that he's not going to tell me.

"Dreams pass in time," he says, after a while. He sounds like he hopes it's true, too. "They can show many things, but not all of them are… to be heeded."

Now his eyebrows go together and it makes a really deep line between them. He's kinda _blocking_ me out, too. I can feel it – and hey! That must be shielding. It's like there's this wall in the Force, like an energy field thing. I kinda push against it with my own mind, just like when we were sharing memories, and he pushes back and then it's like a wrestling contest and just for a minute I see Master Qui-Gon except his face is all white and dead looking and then Master sorta _jerks_ away and my head hurts a little.

"Hey!"

"Anakin," he says all sharp like I did something wrong.

"Sorry," I say. He's kinda mad but I still don't know what I did so wrong.

Master lets his breath out all slowly. "The Dark side is growing stronger here," he says in a really quiet voice. "We should meditate. The more we succumb to negative feelings, the stronger the jabuur-weki will grow."

"Yeah, but don't we have to _stop_ it?" I mean, we can't just wait for it to get real super strong and then come and blitz all the Feorians. Jedi are s'posed to stop bad stuff from happening.

"The Force will guide us," he decides. "We must be ready – by staying anchored, centered. We cannot allow … dreams…. to imbalance us. Do you understand? The jabuur-weki feeds on fear, Anakin."

Fear. And when he says that, I think I know the name of the monster in my dream. And even though we're meditating and all and it's like Master is a lantern and I'm shining in his light and it's all warm and peaceful, that monster is still there all deep inside. And I think it might be outside too, waiting for me.

And it knows my name.


	41. Chapter 41

**Inheritance**

* * *

_Author's note: A reader has asked why in the world young Anakin does not carry a lightsaber in this tale. Anakin here is barely ten years old, has been a Jedi for less than six months, and is a human male with a proclivity for wreaking havoc. It would be utter folly to hand him a hyper-polarized open arc plasma energy blade, don't you think? In this chapter, Obi-Wan veers close to irresponsibility by letting the boy use a much less deadly implement, but he is to be forgiven on grounds of inexperience and a generous heart. -rb_

* * *

41.

"Here, lord Jedi. Drink this."

I start awake – or at least _fully_ awake. Dawn comes early, and my watch stretched from midnight until now, a lonely vigil and a cold one. I accept the warm ceramic bowl gratefully, and tip the hot brew over wind-chapped lips and down my throat. The Feorians drink a sort of mild argees – a sweeter, aromatic version of the common dark variety which is popular in the Core. It is uncommonly sweet this morning, and I realize that she has softened its slightly bitter taste with sugar and milk from a domestic _groat._ A few of the amicable beasts are tethered behind huts here and there.

"Thank you," I tell the old Feorian nursemaid. It is RuRu, the one who cared for Anakin when he was suffering the aftermath of his self-inflicted hashka poisoning. I hand her the emptied bowl, but she does not wander away.

"Dost thou feel the madness coming?" she inquires in her rasping crone's voice, leaning in closer. Her sagging and mournful features lend her words an air of doomsday prophecy.

Do I feel _the madness_ coming? Well. That depends on one's point of view, does it not? But something tells me RuRu here is not referring to the stresses of training a very young Padawan. "The madness?" I repeat.

The elderly Feorian nods her head sagely. "Aye, the madness. Thou hast heard the tale of the jabuur-weki, hast thou not, Pada-Wan? It is an avenging spirit, thou knowest."

"So I have heard." Again and again, in point of fact.

"Soon we will all be mad," she informs me, conspiratorially. "Unless thou dare face it and slay it for us."

"I-"

She pokes a gnarled finger into my chest. "Vorpal blade," she grunts. "Not a weapon thou can _carry,_ young lord Jedi. But I think thou already know of what I speak."

_The Force is the blade of the heart._ So we are taught, from earliest infancy. It is a mantra oft-repeated, perhaps never fully understood. I am amazed to hear this simple elder from a primitive tribe profess the same wisdom… but the Force is one thing, and just as every pathetic life form has a use, every sentient being – no matter how humble – has his or her share in its universal Light.

I bow. "Indeed. And I promise you that we shall do all in our power to protect your people from this… avenging spirit." I only hope it will be sufficient.

RuRu tucks the ceramic cup into a voluminous pocket, and starts to shuffle away. She halts a few paces distant. "Beware. The madness will soon be upon us.. and then thou will stand alone, thou and the other lord and the boy."

And before I can formulate a reply to this ominous pronouncement, she has tottered off into the women's shelter. And here is Anakin, looking frayed about the edges. The poor creature did not sleep well last night, nor the one before. Darkness creeps closer after sunset, and both our dreams have been disturbed, though I have not confessed so much to him.

He kicks at a loose pebble on the ground, surliness writ large across his Force signature.

I raise an eyebrow at this unbecoming display. "Whatever ails you, Anakin, rest assured that you cannot solve the problem by kicking gravel about."

He looks wounded. I am not moved.

"I just wanted to _help," _ he complains. "You know, with the new hover-barge. It's actually kinda junky like the old one. And I thought maybe I could fix it up for them… but Lorra and the other guys wouldn't even let me _near_ it. They told me to go away. They said the Jedi are a bunch of 'noxious somethings."

I shrug. "And this disturbs you why?"

He stares, outraged. "'Cause we're not! It's not true!"

"Well, then, if you know it's not true, why are you so disturbed by a false opinion?"

Another pebble goes flying, skittering fiercely over the frozen earth.

"_Padawan."_

"Sorry, master," he addresses the far horizon.

I exhale, a Yamalsa technique calming breath. Anakin is ostracized at the Temple, at least according to his perceptions; and he is likewise shunned here. I am not unversed in what loneliness means, to a young boy…. But there is no excuse for ill conduct. I consider him warily. His bad mood is _dangerous_ in an environment such as this, where an unseen monster lays in ambush, ready to swell with anger, sorrow, fear, resentment. Something must be done to diffuse even Anakin's trifling peeves.

"Come with me," I instruct, heading for the village outskirts. A rickety cart sits behind the last hut.

"What are we doing?" His footfalls patter eagerly behind me, hunger for action – any kind of action – instantly replacing his melancholy. He is a mercuric spirit, this child. I may never fully understand him… but I am learning to _manage_ his volatile shifts of mood.

"We shall help these people whether they want it or not. I've noticed that their firewood supplies are dwindling." Doubtless they are too afraid of the jabuur-weki to venture far beyond the village.

Anakin catches up to me and peers over the wasteland beyond, where a paltry scattering of native bushes provides the only source of fuel. To gather sufficient wood for cooking and warming their homes, the Feorians must wander far into the unprotected tundra, where the monster is thought to prowl.

"But… firewood?" the boy repeats, dubiously. "That's kinda dumb. I mean, we're _Jedi._ Can't we do something better?"

"Perhaps – but we need to do this, too. Without fuel, they will freeze and starve. A humble task is not a useless task, Anakin."

"I guess." We set off across the unforgiving, barren turf, heading for a clump of vegetation just visible in the distance. Anakin pushes the cart, its ancient frame creaking grumpily as it rattles over dips and cracks in the earth. The plants turn out to be twisted stumps, little more – but their dead branches will suffice for our purposes.

Anakin is happiest when his hands are busy fixing – or at least _dismantling-_ something. I slip my knife out of its hidden sheath in my left boot.

"Can I use it?" my Padawan asks, eyes wide with hope.

"You may." He accepts the tool eagerly, turning the blade over in his hands. "On condition that you do not sever your own arm."

"Is it true that Vespari steel can cut through pretty much _anything?"_ he demands. When I nod an affirmative, he prattles on, hacking branches off with murderous ease and tossing them into the cart. "These are super rare. I heard a spacer at the cantina talk about them once. You can mostly only get them from a forge-smith if you're somebody special like royalty or something. And they get handed down in families. If you inherit one it means you get like the _whole_ estate and the family title and stuff. That guy at the cantina said it was a symbol of… . of, um, _primo-_ something."

"Primogeniture," I supply.

I am not certain how accurate his informant's tale is. Certainly I've not heard these details before. But then, I never asked.

"Rugged," Anakin decides, still marveling at the knife's craftsmanship. "Do you think I'll ever have one like yours? Maybe a bigger one, even. Then I'd have like more _primogenitals _than you."

Only a decade's practice at playing sabaac against my own master enables me to keep my composure intact. Besides, my little friend: you may be the Chosen One, but midichlorians do not make the man.

"Master Qui-Gon gave me the knife," I say, neutrally, to deflect the conversation from its current disastrous trajectory. I can sense that he wishes to hear more, but … he won't. To relate the tale is to remember, and to remember is to dwell in the past. I cannot afford that – not here, not now.

"Oh," he replies, almost reverently. "_Wizard."_


	42. Chapter 42

**Inheritance**

* * *

42.

And now it's going to rain.

With sunset came a phalanx of heavy clouds, an ominous roiling mass blowing down from the high open plains above us. Storms on Gola can be brutal; no geological formations stand in the way of icy cold fronts moving in from the lifeless and frigid polar regions. That the Feorians have learned to weather such assaults in their flimsy shelters is an astounding testimony to their patience and forbearance, for doubtless the winds accompanying such a storm do considerable damage to the village and demand painstaking repair. These people did not originally hail from such a harsh environment, and their building practices reflect that fact.. Before they were enslaved and scattered to every corner of the galaxy, centuries ago, Feoria was blessed with a moderate climate. I fear mining interests have since wrecked the planet; it is classified as Sub-Surface Habitable Only, now – and the owners had no interest in hosting a cultural reservation, anyhow.

So the exiles were left with this.

The first droplets spatter and bounce on the hard packed earth. The darkness is punctuated by small orange frames of light where a householder has set a spirit lantern near a door or window opening, to ward off the avenging monster. I pull my hood over my head, drawing my cloak's folds close against the rising wind. Droplets turn to streaks, and then to driving sheets.

Yet I dare not relax my guard, for I can feel something else approach, behind the cover of darkness, riding the storm wind like a steed. Along the ground, just beyond the visible spectrum, apparent only as after-image, the first searching tongues of blue fire waver and crawl. The jabuur-weki is coming, swelling with the laden clouds above, drawing strength from the threat of the storm.

And when the first thunderclap splits the heavens in two, a wrathful presence manifests itself within the seething Force. For a moment I see not looming thunderheads, but the outstretched wings of some nameless monster, leathery clawed arms stretched wide and possessively over us all. A serrated beak opens, screaming bottomless hate, and then disappears as real, natural lightning takes its place. A bolt strikes the earth not ten meters from the village boundaries, and it occurs to me that there are dangers besides those of the Dark Side. Already the rain has transformed to stinging pellets, and I move for cover beneath the pathetic overhang of the long-house.

_Fierfek._ Just what we needed.

A cloak-shrouded figure slips from the doorway of the guest lodging and dashes across the exposed square, sliding to a sopping wet halt beside me. The rain pours down, sealing us behind a waterfall of run-off. Thunder grumbles menacingly overhead.

"Master!" Kenobi shouts over the din.

I lean closer. "I feel it, too!" I holler back. The _jabuur-weki_ is coming, and the Force is acutely disturbed. A thread of anxiety, of gibbering madness, runs beneath the clamor of the storm, a seductive whisper tugging at our minds. This is the Dark Side, and we are well trained to resist it… but the innocent Feorians are another matter. "This could get ugly," I warn him.

We stand shoulder to shoulder – well, almost – and watch the onslaught dwindle to a heavy mist. A thick layer of hailstones lies upon the frozen soil, not melting. Doors and windows cast ghastly beams of light over the textured ice, and the clouds sink yet lower, until we are wrapped in a cathedral of mist and vaulted shadows. The Dark's whispers grow to a chorus, a twisted anthem. I feel Kenobi tense beside me, his hand – like mine – closed fast around his saber's hilt.

"Where is your Padawan?"

"I told him to _stay inside. _ This is… too much."

I nod. It is indeed. And the boy is dangerous, whether or not Obi-Wan here will admit it. Qui-Gon thought that the child himself might be a vergence in the Force – and if that is so, it is no coincidence that the monster here has been stirred to greater wrath by our arrival. Such principalities should not be brought into such close contact.

A piercing cry cuts across the eerie silence in the aftermath of the rain – but it is a natural sound, the gurgling shout of a creature pushed past its limits. And a moment later, the first of the Feorians emerges from his home, stumbling beneath the low-set lintel of his doorframe. His clothing is disheveled, and his sinewy hands clutch spasmodically at his head , tugging on the drooping ears.

"Ohh! Oooohhh!" the poor, afflicted elder moans, lurching randomly about the square. He is soon joined by others, and then by yet others, some shouting, some crawling on hands and knees, one or two rolling on the icy earth as though in the clutches of a seizure.

"The madness," Kenobi murmurs, and then he is dashing forward, to render assistance.

I follow. But there is little we can do. The Feorians groan and thrash and mutter incoherently, every one of them in the grip of a driving nightmare, a vision from which there is no waking. I keep my mental shields high, blocking out the pervasive stench of the Dark, but despite my best effort I cannot suppress the echo of laughter all about us. The _jabuur-weki_ draws nigh, and a wicked chuckling writhes about it in the Force, a sniggering fanfare, a promise of cruel delight. The Feorians cannot hear our voices, and do not respond to our words. I stand, gazing up at the blackened sky, and again I see a panoply of claws and beaks and emaciated, tattered flesh where there ought only to be cloud.

Thunder crashes down upon us again, setting the insane Feorians to screaming and quaking, many humped into balls upon the sodden earth, hands clamped tight over heads, bodies quivering in abject terror.

"_Jabuur-weki!"_ one of them wails, and the cry is taken up a hundredfold.

"The long-house!" Kenobi exclaims. And there- like some lurid backdrop in a surrealist play, the elders' council house stands, wreathed in consuming fire. Red and gold flames lick at its roof, its walls, and blue smoke rises to mingle with the descending clouds in a sickly admixture of ash and fog. Dancing figures are silhouetted against the vibrant light – the forms of Yonso and a handful of others, torches still in their hands.

"The elders are inside!" my young friend shouts, pelting across the village square, leaping over clusters of crouching Feorians in long bounds. I sprint in his wake, cursing. The arsonists holler obscene defiance to the lowering heavens, the fire catches hold of the building and roars to rival the thunder, and the _jabuur-weki_ screeches with invisible laughter, present all about us and mocking our vain resistance.

And it starts to rain again, the freezing downpour doing nothing to quench the clawing flames. Sparks and hailstones are whipped into a frenzy by the wind, and Kenobi and I are showered with biting fire and ice, every point of pain a reminder of the Dark's ascendancy.

And the Feorians howl in boundless terror, mindless despair.


	43. Chapter 43

**Inheritance**

* * *

43.

Something's happening.

It's like the whole universe is talking just to me. It's like the _jabuur-weki_ knows I'm here and it's calling out to me, like it wants me to come out and fight it.

It knows my name. I can hear it – the rain and the hail and thunder and stuff, that's all the _jabuur-weki, _ and the nighttime and the screaming Feorians out there and Master shouting and Master Windu shouting back – that's all part of it. There's like a whole million voices shouting in the dark, and I can hear them but nobody else can. They all want _me._

They want to _blitz _me.

I'm all alone in here. Master said to stay put, but he didn't understand about the voices. It's like claws and snatching jaws and stuff are ripping down the house and ripping through the darkness and coming to get me. I can't just stay here, 'cause it'll get me. Master would want me to get away – he really would. I have to get away… except where?

It's outside and inside, and I _can't _ get away. It's coming for me and it keeps calling my name like it knows me and its _hungry._

"Master!" I yell, but he can't hear.

Then I try to yell for him in the Force, but everything is so twisty and jiggery and full of thunder. Ow! Real thunder, and it hurts my head. And the _jabuur-weki_ is laughing at me , like it thinks that was funny. It's gonna kill all the Feorians and Master Windu and Obi-Wan too. It's gonna eat up this entire world and the stars and everything, and it's gonna get me too and eat my insides all slow and terrible and claw them out and even if I scream forever there won't be an escape and –

"Noooo!" I don't want that! I have to stop it!

And there's this place inside me where I don't like to think about, but it's like an empty place and sometimes its all full of light, like when I met my angel from Iego for the first time – Padme I mean – and sometimes it's full of dark like when that sleemo pizzmah Lorra called me a slave boy. And right now that place _hurts._ It's all full of lightning, like fire, and I can't tell if it's good or bad or anything but all of a sudden I'm not afraid, I'm _mad._

And I'm gonna stop that _jabuur-weki, _ like the hero in the story.

I _am _ the hero, even if I don't have a lightsaber. I've got something almost just as good.

So I get all my stuff- my cloak and my boots and this satchel thingy and the old busted repulsor drive from the Feorian tram and the knife that Master let me borrow for a while 'cause I liked it so much and we're friends, and I guess if you share your possessions that's kinda like not being attached, right? It's not a vorpal blade, technically, but it's still pretty _rugged,_ and Master Qui-Gon gave it to him special. I stick it in my boot just like he does, except it kinda sticks over the top of mine so I shove it in my belt instead right where a real 'saber would go when I'm older. And then I peek my head out the door and there's something on _fire_ over there – I think it's the elders' longhouse, that's really really bad – and I scream right back at the _jabuur-weki._

It can't make me afraid because I'm real super mad and I'm gonna get it before it gets me and everyone else! Maybe it should be afraid of _me. _

I'm the hero.

And I go running like as fast as I can with all this ice and rain hitting me in the face and making the ground slippery. But the Force is on my side even if it's all hot and burning and cold and awful and stuff, 'cause it still makes me fast and powerful like I'm podracing and I'm the only human who can do it. I can do _anything-_ anything at all, even slay the jabuur-weki. And I _run._

I remember the way. I don't need to even see and it's like there's a big ol' magnet pulling me that way so it doesn't really matter if I remember or not and the closer I get the louder the voices get until they're all screaming just crazy loud inside my head and the thunder and stuff is inside of me and the lightning that _zaps_ over there is like part of me too. I can feel it. Everything is connected and I'm like the _center_ of it all.

And here's the cave and I almost drop my bag because there's so much ice blitzing me out of the sky like the clouds are trying to stop me and that cave opening is really dark where the boulder leans over. In the nighttime it looked for a minute like a monster, all folded up there with its wings wrapped around its body and its beak jaw thing all tucked down secret so I wouldn't see it. But then there's more lightning way over there and I can see it's just a giant boulder so I go underneath it.

The cave is cold.

And it's like a dream, a bad one.

It's like that dream I had before, only worse.

"Mom!" I holler. She's right over there, only she's all _wrong, _all sad and and and _bloody _and stuff, and then she's gone again.

And then there's Hutts and Watto and Tusken raiders and the prison bloc under Gardulla's palace and a dead krayt skeleton staring up at the moons with the sand all hissing around it like its alive and there's lots of stuff, bad stuff I don't want to look at – and then its gone and it's super freezing cold.

And this is the _jabuur-weki's _lair. Master went in here and he almost _blitzed_ the monster. Almost. But I think I can do it for real. I know what to do.

I'm the _hero._

Mom would be super proud, and Master will be too. He won't get in trouble from the Council any more 'cause I'm not good enough and cause I sorta accidentally break the rules and all. And then we'll be super real good friends.

I grab my stuff and I squeeze through into the smaller cave. I have to get _all_ the way in, to the secret inner cave, the one Yonso found. That's the place. And then I'll show the _jabuur-weki_ who's the boss.

Me. Anakin Skywalker. A real _Jedi._ A hero.


	44. Chapter 44

**Inheritance**

* * *

44.

The long-house is burning like a beacon fire, its flimsy walls of packed earth crumbling beneath the falling roof, the woven fibers ablaze with terrible rage. The building must have been doused in oil, for this is no ordinary conflagration – and was it not _raining_ just a moment ago?

Master Windu wastes no time; the Force swells about him, a bright corona leaping higher than the visible flames. He holds out his hands, and _smothers_ the consuming tongues of flame, tamping down their wrath with the power of the Force. Sparks swirl into the dark skies; pillars of choking smoke twist and billow from the dying embers.

I leap into the blackened mess of the building, heedless of the risk, for there are Feorians trapped inside. Cries of terror and agony erupt from the sagging, smoldering ruins. I hold my breath, keep my eyes tightly closed. Smoke and cascading ash fill my nostrils though I do not draw breath. A hand clutches at my sleeve. I seize it and push the elder toward the exit. And another. A third lies prostrate. I heave his limp form over my shoulders and push on. Two others stumble into me and are pushed after the others. And then the roof collapses full above me.

The Force holds it at bay, redirecting its fall. The ember-riddled beams slam down to either side, missing their target. Smoke rises in a hellish cloud and I leap, clinging to my lifeless burden, clear of the smoldering ruins.

I miss my landing, drop the poor Feorian, slice my knee on some jutting shard of rock. Mace Windu's hand grips my shoulder. Without it, I might keel over.

Feorians wail and flee, their fear whipping the smoke and darkness into agonized forms, coiling wraiths. Something terrible draws near, a thing crimson and black, heralded by the wicked sigils twisting in the smoke. I choke on the hot effluvia of the fire until I've retched up a sticky mess, and climb to my feet, still holding onto Master Windu for support.

And the _jabuur-weki_ looms full above us.

It is smoke and fire, and it is a thing clothed in these veils and illusions.

It is vast wings, reaching claws and razored beak, a belly distended by gluttony and starvation, the endless feast of the Dark. It swells within the blossoming smoke, blotting out the stars, incorporeal and limitless, wailing soundless fury. Thunder rolls in its wake, and fleet lightning crowns it.

Its eyes burn with sickly yellow light; its body is nothing but a crawling mass of carnivorous beetles; its voice is a scouring sandstorm.

And the ruinous longhouse is the fallen ramparts of a mighty temple, darkened and burning in some distant night. The screams of the Feorians are the death pangs of innocent children, the shadow's spreading wings the embrace of some nameless tyranny.

My cry of denial bleeds into the monster's own harsh keening. I hear Mace Windu call out beside me, a guttural oath of defiance, of raw loathing. We face _fear_ itself. Fear incarnate.

Our sabers leap pure and sonorous from their hilts, but the monster looms closer yet, stifling as the ash-laden air, the ground-shaking thunder. And blue lighting explodes, blinding, from the _jabuur-weki's_ gaping maw.

We are the eye of the storm, the center of a blazing citadel, the last island of light in the sea of black terror. Our sabers move together, as one, a unity of purpose, of honor, of dedication. Wicked tongues of fire spatter on the blades, rebound and shiver into the night. The monster howls its displeasure, wings wrapping about us, wrath gathering to a crushing singularity, its voice so piercing that it draws our own cries of pain up into itself, a chorus of destruction.

And then it hesitates; withdrawing… furling inward … it retreats, its war-cry sounding over the frozen plain, echoing like a ghastly dirge across the emptiness.

I am somehow on my knees again, my vision wheeling with the giddy stars, stunned disbelief drumming in my veins. It has gone… gone…

"Easy, son."

This is Mace Windu, whose dark face is slicked with a cold sweat, whose features are lined with a strain I have never seen. I shake my head at him, for I don't need assistance, I merely –

Anakin.

Where is Anakin?

Blast this coughing fit, where is _Anakin, _ for stars' sake?

I reach for him, within the Force, and he is not here. He is not near, not in the village, not –

"No, no, _no!" Blast it,_ Anakin! "Master –"

"What's wrong? What is it?"

_Damn _it to the nine hells, I'm going to kill that boy. There isn't time for this, and the _jabuur-weki _ is on the loose, and it's headed….

By the Force! I thrust an arm out over the plains, in the direction the monster has fled. "Anakin. He's gone to the caves."

"_Fierfek."_

And now we are sprinting, side by side, covering the slick and treacherous ground between the village enclosure and the ominous mass of the glacial boulder, its dark silhouette marking the place like some gaudy mausoleum. Ice grits beneath our flying boots, and wind rises to buffet us, pushing against us in mute protest. My teeth chatter, and the frigid air burns in my scarred lungs, but-

He is not there. He has gone within. The _jabuur-weki_ no longer fills the sky, no longer rivals the cold void of night. But the Force is violently disturbed, clotted and stained by the presence of _something, _of a primordial nightmare. I halt beneath the overhang of the mighty rock, Mace Windu just behind me.

Within, it is Dark.

And the Dark whispers my name, enticing, promising everlasting oblivion in its fathomless depths.

"_No," _ I gasp. My voice is weak, bereft of sound.

"May the Force be with us," Master Windu breathes. "The monster has found a new anchor – another vergence. It's down in that cave _now."_

With Anakin. Alone. My heart hammers against my ribs, protesting both the idea of entering the black fissure, and the idea of leaving the boy alone and undefended. _No, no, no, no, no, _my pulse drums in frantic rhythm, a battle frenzy of revulsion.

But there is no question in my mind. I plunge head-first into the gloom, to save my rash and foolish Padawan from a destruction far worse than mere death.


	45. Chapter 45

**Inheritance**

* * *

45.

Kenobi throws himself straight into the heart of darkness.

And I am not far behind. The _thing_ has come home to its lair, summoned by some vital and driving beacon, by the presence of a new vergence here in the place of its origin. Severed from its focal point, it seeks to coalesce within and around the new one, a vortex of power and fear rushing in toward the Skywalker boy as starlight plummets endlessly into a black hole.

The boy is dangerous.

And more than that, he is in terrible danger.

Kenobi's voice is harsh with cognizance of this fact, even if he does not understand the full extent of the horror here embodied. He calls for the boy over and over, but all sound seems to be absorbed into the pitch black of the first cave. It is so cold here that our breath rises in ghostly clouds before our eyes, weirdly illumined by the glow of two saber blades. The weapons' signature humming note echoes over and over again, blending into the Dark's rising chant.

I know the words. It is a Sith litany, a curse upon the servants of Light, a bloody and perverse oath sworn on the altar of hatred.

"Skywalker!" I call out, louder than the formless whispers of malice.

There is no answer.

Ahead of me, Kenobi presses onward. His breath comes in rasping pants, for here we are intruders in the fiefdom of a hostile principality, and the Dark drags in our blood, buffets our minds with excoriating hate.."He's in the last cave, master. I have to find him… he shouldn't be here."

But neither should we. This is a domain of evil, a place steeped in the Dark side long before any life set foot on this world. For us, it is a place of trial.

We squeeze into the second chamber together, and marvel at the ithyll crystals refracting our sabers' twin light into infinite splendor. Dark drips from the milky stalactites, pools on the hardened floor, seeps along the glittering walls. The Dark's song rises, triumphant and mocking.

"Anakin!"

There is a tiny light flaring through the narrow crack beyond. The boy is in there – Force knows why – and –

"Master!"

Kenobi rushes to the opening, grasps the edges of the narrow fissure. "Anakin! Get out of there! _Now!"_

The very air in this cave contracts into a majestic silence. My flesh prickles with premonition. The monster is coming. It is already here. It waits and listens, but soon it will –

"No!" the Padawan hollers, his voice peaking into a desperate shriek. "I have to stay! I've gotta slay it! It's coming for _me,_ master! It's gonna kill everybody and everything and _ I _gotta to do this! I'm the one it wants!"

"Anakin! You aren't strong enough to –"

"Go away! I've gotta do this! You can't stop me- I _gotta!_"

The shadows playing among the roof echo with a sudden chilling laughter, and here, before my astonished eyes, the jabuur-weki _ descends …_ taking the form of fear itself, oozing downward until it stands before me, a thousand eyes peering from the dusk of a jungle, blinking orbs surmounted by a crown of horns, armed with blue fire. The lightning erupts about me, and I repel the first assault, bile rising in my throat at this abomination. It is real. It is here. It is the concatenation of all nightmares, the consummation of every nameless dread.

And it has come. This is the moment of reckoning.

"Obi-Wan!" I yell, as the monster rears up, maleficent, "Get the boy and _go!"_

Only one Jedi will perish here, if such must be the end. I know, I have foreseen, that my own death comes in hand to hand combat with Darkness. If this is that day, then I will not fail to protect the Order with my last breath.

Kenobi scrambles through the narrow doorway into the innermost chamber, cursing as he writhes his way through; Skywalker hollers some incoherent protest - and the _jabuur-weki_ falls upon me in terrifying majesty, in full battle array.

My saber _exults_ as it leaps forth to challenge the impossible foe; I give myself over to the will of the Force, to be the blade and crystal of the Light. The jabuur-weki is fear, and pain, and loss, and failure and despair. It is the Dark.

And this is Vaapad.

This is the dance on hell's brink, on the cusp of a gaping chasm; this is the final conquest of fear, for it is the mirror of darkness. I face the creature, my blade against its wrath, and fold myself deep within the Light, within its impenetrable fastness. The _jabuur-weki_ throws itself against me with the finality of extinction, and its power rebounds and shatters against my defense, Dark meeting a flawless mirror, hatred turned back against itself, gnawing predatory fire twisted into its own origin. I do nothing; Light does nothing but stand firm, even in the midst of blazing motion, screaming violet fire. I _am_ the _jabuur-weki, _for it is a thing bred from the fear of its beholder; and I am the _jabuur-weki's _ master, for Vaapad is the taming of the Dark, the subjection of fear.

The battle rages, until the cave is filled with razored shadows, purple fire cast in bright streaks upon the gleaming walls, black rage dripping between them, the roar of the monster flooding my every sense, shaking the foundations of this world. Again and again the thing spits lightning, and again and again I block savage destruction.

But I will admit, I am on the defensive… and what blow can I strike _against _such a foe? It is a cancerous malformation of the Force itself, and I but a man.

Within the last cave, I hear Kenobi and the Skywalker boy shouting, screaming at each other, a disturbance that arrests even the monster's dire attention. The thing billows, smoky yet solid, rippling with blue fire, shuddering in some hot ethereal wind, and howls its frustration into the void.

We are at a stalemate, this monster and I; fear and fearlessness stand in sterile opposition, neither supreme. I clutch my hands to my head, for the shrill agony of its voice seems to drive into my very soul.

And then it contracts, and in a rush of wind, in a blaze of dark fury, it turns to the inner cave and flows pitiless through the narrow gap, intent on destruction.

The very Force seems to cry out in unison with the Skywalker boy, his childish voice ringing with a passion far too profound to be encompassed by one so young.

I fly to the opening, but I cannot pass through the narrow gap. And what I see beyond stops my breath, perhaps my very heart.

May the Force be with us.


	46. Chapter 46

**Inheritance**

* * *

46.

"Noooooo! _Nooooooo-oooo!"_

_The jabuur weki is here!_

It came. And it wants me. And it's eating me alive, with its snatching claws, and and – and it's _inside_ me like in my dream and it's all ripping and tearing and burning and –

No! I don't want it to be inside me but it _is _and now it's like I'm part of it and it's melting me inside of it and its like I'm the thing all made of shadows and black ripped up wings and rotting skin and stuff, and –

I hate this! I hate it! I hate everything!

I hate Master Obi-Wan because this is all his fault! He brought me here and the _jabuur-weki _ found me and – and – and it's like my thoughts are all melting and oozing into other ones, stuff I never thought before, weird stuff like about the darkness and about fire and how I'm going to _kill_ Master, he's standing right there, I could just _destroy _ him and then the hurt inside would go away for a minute and-

I kinda throw myself at him, kicking and punching and stuff, but the _jabuur-weki_ says to do other stuff too. It says to bite and scratch and claw and scream and use the Force.

And now me and Master are rolling on the wet splashy floor and its like I'm going to _tear_ him apart and maybe choke him too – and –

"Anakin!" he shouts with his voice all cracking, not flat like normally. "Anakin! Anakin, come to your senses!"

That's Master, he's always telling me what to do and he's trying to get a grip on me but I'm super powerful now, the _jabuur-weki_ and me are super powerful together and he's no match for us and we throw him across the room like he always does to other people. I can hear his body hit the wall and I can kinda feel the pain, too, and the _jabuur-weki_ likes that part, it feels like something hot and sweet going down my throat and making my tummy all warm. My heart's beating _hoocha _fast, but – hey!

Master looks scared, but he isn't. He isn't 'cause he jumps right back at me and now we're _really_ fighting, 'cause he's using the Force too and he's trying to –ow!

He hurt me! I'll kill him, I'll really super hurt him and tear him apart and all the whole world and _burn_ it, crush it, _destroy_ it - me, the jabuur-weki, the lord of darkness, the center of the universe, the -

"_Anakin!"_

I laugh in hsi face 'cause Master Obi-Wan never panics but he sounds scared and I'm more powerful than him and he _won't _ win this time, not now, and -

He's trying to _rip _the jabuur-weki out of me but his powers are weak and he can't, nothing can, it's too late and I'm the most powerful ever and -

"Oooow!" He's _hurting_ me, my arm, that hurts, and – and-

The _jabuur-weki _ says I should _kill_ him now, just do it, do it Anakin, kill him dead and leave him and -

Leave him…

I _won't _ leave anyone! I had to leave Mom and I hated it and I had to leave Padme and I hated it and I won't leave anybody! I hate the _jabuur-weki, too._ I scream and scream and it sorta rips loose from me, until I'm all splattered all over the cave like that guy who had the podracer crash out by the Red Arches and his brains and stuff went everywhere, and I must be dead it hurts so bad, and-

"Anakin! Anakin! Look at me."

That's Master. He's white as bones, like krayt lizard bones dried out in the Dune Sea, and he's scared for real, I can see that. And I'm not dead and I'm not exploded everywhere at all, I'm just right here.

And the monster is here too, and it's _mad!_

"I hate you!" I yell at it. My voice is all broken and scratchy, but I don't care. I _hate _ it cause it made me feel all those things and do all those bad things and it wants to eat me again, to come inside me and be me again!

It looks just like the thing in my dream, the thing Mom turned into, the thing that chased me in my racer and was ripping me apart and stuff until Master came. It's real and it's here and it's coming for me again!

And then Master stands up and his _lightsaber_ is blinding my eyes. It's blue and sharp and you can't see anything else only the blade and it makes a loud sound, like a war-cry like a growling terrible sound like thunder. And Master Obi-Wan is super _hoocha _ scared, I can feel it, but he stands right up to that monster anyway with his _laser sword, _ and you know what?

I think he would _blitz_ it if it tried to get me.

But he can't, not all the way. It's laughing at him, and then it spits lightning at him, awful blue lightning and I can feel it in the Force, it's _wicked_ and it will kill Master if it hits him, and it's bouncing off his saber but he's stumbling back and now he's standing right on top of me. I gotta do something. The _jabuur-weki's _ gonna kill Master and then _eat_ me and then _I'll _be the _jabuur-weki _and I'll do terrible stuff, kill all the Feorians and burn stuff down and explode stuff and make everybody hurt, a whole lot.

I gotta _do _something. I gotta save everybody from dying!

I don't have a vorpal blade.

But I'm still the hero.

And I have Obi-Wan's knife. And the old busted repulsor drive in my satchel. The ground is hard and its wet and I think it's blood, lots and lots of blood, or maybe it's just water I can't tell anymore but I have to get there, I have to, and Master's battling the _jabuur-weki, _ and I can feel him now, he's shining really bright in the Light but he's scared too and he's gonna _die_ if I don't fix this _jabuur-weki_ like right now!.

I'll fix that vaping poodoo-face son of a vetch krayt-kriffer, all right. Watch me.

I flick the drive depressurizer to maximum and shove Master's knife right under the damper shielding. Just a little bit. And guess what? Vespari steel does go through anything. It's totally rugged!

And we've got like about twenty seconds before we're totally dead.

"Master!" I scream. And the _jabuur-weki _ is screaming too like it knows what I just did and its body bloats up all horrible and huge and I can't see and I kinda fall down and I kinda cut my hand on the knife, that's still right here in my hand. But Master's here and he picks me up with one arm, all in a hurry and blood gets all over him too.

"We gotta _run!" _I scream at him, and he doesn't ask questions or anything. He must sorta feel the danger in the Force I guess. And he shoves me toward the cave opening and I go through, and the _jabuur-weki _ sorta pounces on my repulsor unit, kinda squishing itself into a cloud around it, all crazy hoocha style, like it's trying to fix it before it's too late, like it knows what's happening, but -

"_It's too late, sleemo!"_

Now Master Windu sorta grabs me and pulls me through super fast so it scrapes and hurts and then he's pulling Master through too and I think Obi-Wan actually said a pretty bad word there but nobody cares. And then I fall down 'cause I'm super dizzy, and Master picks me up again and we're all running like crazy and the Force is twisting in an awful hurting way, all crazy and horrible and danger danger danger –

And the 'splosion like _blows_ us all the way out the main entrance, and that big 'ol rock thing like _splits _it half and like the sky is full of flying dirt and rock and crystal shards and fire and then the shock wave like _rolls_ the ground and we all get knocked flat on our faces.

_Wizard! Wizard! _ I did that! I made that hoocha big bomb! It's so _rugged!_

And Master and Master Windu are holding out their hands and the Force kinda shelters us so the rocks and stuff don't hit us. They come raining down like a meteor shower all around us but we don't get burned. And the _jabuur-weki_ is gone, like it got blown sky high into the Force, into nowhere until we can feel it inside ourselves like a huge 'splosion, too. I can feel it, the night isn't heavy anymore and there's no chanting voices and it's quiet and empty and you can even see the stars.

And Master Obi-Wan and Master Windu just kinda lie there, breathing really really hard. Master's hand is squeezing around my wrist kinda too tight but it's okay.

And we just lie there on our backs for a minute, even though we're Jedi.

And then I can't help it. I don't mean to cry but I sorta do. 'Cause that was scary, and I'm tired, so tired. I just… I'm not! Don't look at me, I'm a Jedi not a baby, and- and – okay, all right. I'm crying, just a little bit. But not 'cause I'm scared. I'm just so… tired…. So….


	47. Chapter 47

**Inheritance**

* * *

47.

Anakin Skywalker is a light burden to bear.

Or a crushing one, depending on your point of view. Here, dangling in my arms as Master Windu and I trudge back toward the Feorian village, the boy is nothing but a bundle of gangly limbs and bruised skin. He is small for his age. I was too. But something tells me he will grow larger than life, large enough to cast a shadow over us all. He could be a great Jedi. He could be a hero. Or he could…

"Nnngh," he mutters, stirring in my grasp. His hand is cut open, crimson ooze drying on my tunics, all over his sleeves. I did _tell _ him to be careful with the knife. Why doesn't he listen to me?

"Sweet Force," Master Windu mutters beside me. "What caused that explosion?"

"Anakin ruptured a repulsor drive pressurizer….I think." I am not incompetent, but my Padawan's technical skill already far outstrips my own. I have never imagined that a bomb could be so easily manufactured from something as quotidian as a repulsor-drive. That such potential for destruction lies latent within the innocuous guise of a common everyday object – it is a chilling thought. It is as though a mere naïve child could somehow harbor all the powers of darkness within his bosom.

_The boy is dangerous, master. They all sense it. Why can't you?_

"Mnngh," the Chosen One sniffles into my tunics, soiling them yet further. I don't mind. The freezing air is a flail, cutting deep gouges where it whips against my damp clothing.

"He managed to destroy the entire ithyll cave, and with it the vergence. I'd say we have much to be grateful for – his ingenuity included."

"I'll… yes, Master. We have."

I am grateful for Anakin. A strange thought, one that slipped unnoticed beneath my guard. I accepted him, yes – out of gratitude to Qui-Gon. Out of loyalty. Out of – blast it, all right. Out of _love. _Forbidden attachment. I promised Anakin his Knighthood., yes. Out of duty, out of determination, out of obedience. Out of hope for the future, perhaps. But I did not _want_ a Padawan. I wanted my master back.

_Train the boy…. Obi-Wan, promise. He is the Chosen One. He will bring balance._

And this is what the Force gave me instead. A burden, too heavy for the humble shoulders that bear it… and yet, light enough in the present moment.

"So the monster… is gone? Forever?" I ask, tentatively. Could it be possible that the _jabuur-weki_ is utterly vanquished? And all because of a young boy?

Master Windu nods, his eyes peering through the night to the boundaries of the village ahead. Torches flicker here and there, but no leaping flames rise to greet us. There are voices carrying on the wind, Feorians singing and weeping, but no longer gibbering with madness. "It is gone," he decides. "The vergence has been annihilated, and so there is no more projection. I think we may tell our friends the good news."

"Uugh," Anakin's eyelids flicker open, then droop shut again. Exhaustion suddenly claims my own limbs, in mute sympathy. The encounter in the cave was an extremity of nightmare, an ordeal beyond all imagining. And Anakin is young, and untrained.

A knot of Feorians hastens forward to greet us. The chieftain is with them, and Yonso. They stare at us with wide and fearful eyes.

"Lord Jedi! Lord Jedi! What hath thou done? The monster… has it fled?"

Mace Windu stops, his solemn features etched in mellow gold by their single upheld torch. "The _jabuur-weki_ has been slain," he declares, in a booming voice fit to issue a royal proclamation.

A cheer breaks forth, carried across the square and taken up by the villagers, the women who stumble out of crooked doorways, the small band of children cowering near the ashes of the longhouse. "Caloooo! Callay!" they yodel, in the distinctive warbling manner of their people. The chieftain utters some benediction upon us, some praise of our might and worth.

"Take the boy indoors," Master Windu advises me quietly. "I'll see that the Feorians are all right."

And I am grateful for that reprieve, too. I stagger onward to the guest lodging, Anakin growing heavier with each step, until we are within the familiar confines of the hut and my shaking arms can barely manage to lay him down upon the low sleep-mat. I drop to my knees beside it, grateful for simple warmth and shelter.

"Master?"

I drag my eyelids open. Perhaps time passed… or perhaps not. I cannot say. "Anakin." I fumble for the medical supplies in my belt. His hand must be cleaned and bound, bacta applied…

"Master, I'm super really sorry. About – you know. I didn't want to attack you! The _jabuur-weki _made me do it!"

I treat the wound carefully. "That cave was strong in the Dark Side," I answer, cautiously. "I am not surprised that you felt overwhelmed." Should I be anxious on his behalf? Should I come away from this with some jewel of insight? Stars, I can barely think straight… I will meditate upon it later.

He winces as I smear bacta over the long gash in his palm. "I – master, I thought I was the _jabuur-weki_ for a minute. Like it was me! What if it really got me, what if it _was_ me and I turned into it or something? What would happen then? What would you do?"

"Anakin –" But his face is deadly earnest, and his eyes are glossing over with more unshed tears. Force, the boy wants me to tell him that I would love him anyway or somesuch maudlin sentiment.. I'm too tired for this. But he wants an answer.

"Would you hate me then?" he asks, voice wobbling. He's weary; he's beyond reason. This is not a conversation we should –

"Would you?"

"If you _were _the _jabuur-weki_, Anakin , you wouldn't be _you, _ so I don't see really what the question –"

"But would you? Would you hate me then?"

For Force's sake! What does he want me to say? "A Jedi shall not feel hatred," I snap. I did not intend to be so – blast it, his feelings are hurt. "Anakin, forgive me. I would not hate you. There would not be a _you_. I would only hate the _jabuur-weki."_

"I thought you weren't s'posed to hate," he frowns at me, puzzled.

"Don't tempt me," I snarl, and instantly regret it.

But he laughs. He _laughs._ He …understood.

"Anakin, we are both far too tired to discuss this," I tell him.

"Okay. I care about you too, master," he says. "Can I have the blanket? Master Qui-Gon's, I mean?" He points to the magnificent tapestry folded on a crate across the room. The Force brings it flying into his outstretched hands a moment later. "You look pretty bad, master. I think you should rest. And you're covered in blood."

I am, at that. I really can't summon the energy to give a damn.

And the floor suddenly seems as inviting as the most luxuriant bed in any Core world mansion. The _jabuur-weki _ has been slain, and there is only the Force, and peace, and the obliterating sweet call of slumber.

"Move over," Anakin grunts, bony knees and elbows digging into my side. What in stars' name… the blanket settles over both of us, lending a seductive warmth…

..outside the Feroians whoop and holler and cheer, nonsense syllables twining together, a woven song, a tapestry crafted by careful hands, a braid….

"Go to sleep, Anakin," I manage to slur, for he so obviously and badly needs it.


	48. Chapter 48

**Inheritance**

* * *

48.

"Sit down, Skywalker."

The boy promptly drops back into his seat and folds his hands together. He thinks he's managed to dissemble and mime his way into my good graces with that outward imitation of proper Jedi calm.

I'm in a generous mood. I'll accept it, for now.

The chieftain signals that the music and dancing should begin, and the throbbing cacophony of the traditional Feorian music fills the dining hall. This is the signal for the feast to begin in earnest, I am sorry to say. Feorian cuisine is not among the galaxy's finest - but we do what is required of us, even if it involves roasted grubs and a sinus-searing hot sauce. Perhaps the latter is the kindest complement to the former. I don't really have an opinion on the matter, and I'll be sure to down a good quantity of their fermented tuber-beer before I dare make an empirical verification.

Beside me, Kenobi discreetly levitates his helping back onto the serving platter and takes a delicate sip of his own beverage. Scoundrel. He would never get away with that at the Chandrilan Unity Convention. On the other hand, the Sorority doesn't consider bugs gourmet vittles, so it's of little consequence.

To my left, the Director of the Republic Rim Branch Committee for Cultural Reservations leans in to whisper in my ear. "Very, ah, energetic music, eh, Master Jedi?"

You could say that. I peer across the hall. While the Feorians have reached a tentative armistice within their own ranks in the aftermath of the _jabuuer-weki's_ final assault, tension remains. Yonso grieves for the lost ithyll, the treasure on which he had staked his fond imaginings of ease and prosperity. The chieftain thinks the monster's demise a providential acclamation of the Old Ways. Though Darkness no longer fans the fires of their dispute, the issue has not been resolved.

"Director," I say. "Has there been no provision made for Feorians who may wish to attend a Core-world university?"

"What?" the portly man harrumphs. "Well, ah, the expense. Funding, Master Jedi. We were able to secure these people their generous land grant on the grounds that they would not be a burden to the Republic. Self-sufficiency, you see, not charity. And frankly, there are so few of them – if we hold out an aurodium incentive like that, what do you think will happen to this Reservation? Hm?"

"An exchange program," I insist. "Two students per year. The cost of an internship here might pay for one Feorian's scholarship during the same time. A fair exchange, Director."

He shifts nervously in his seat. "I would have to discuss it with the other members, of course, ah, make a proposal to the Finance Secretary, clear it with the Golian Presidency and so forth."

"We'll send two Jedi students the first year," I decide. "The Agri-Corps can spare them. I'll await the Committee's decision impatiently, Director. I can be contacted on Coruscant, at the Temple."

I believe he choked on a bit of spicy grub. Too bad. Bureaucrats occasionally need a prod in the right direction.

"I'll, ah, see what I can do," the man simpers.

Good enough, for now. I'll speak to the Agri-Corps coordinators later; the "exchange" students ought to be able to at least submit an initial evaluation of the horticultural possibilities here. If they can grow crops on Bandomeer, surely they can grow them here, though it will take time.

Yonso continues to scowl at me balefully. He has no idea I've just bought him a ticket to his coveted dream. Nor will he ever, in all likelihood. He still blames the Jedi for a supposed murder attempt against him and his companions; and he will credit the sudden shift in his fortunes to a capitulation on the chieftain's part, and an unexpected epiphany on the part of the government.

But his opinion on the matter is not mine to mold and influence. We come to serve, not to garner praise and due credit.

Kenobi stands up and excuses himself with a few murmured words of apology. I allow the server to refill my drinking bowl with deep amber liquid, and watch his progress across the boisterous gathering. He slides into a seat beside one of the offworld hangers-on, a sly-faced fellow with a distinctly oily air about him. He professes to be an expert on the Feorian culture, his origins and intentions shady as the uncouth stubble lining his jaw.

I can't hear a word of the exchange, but I can see by Kenobi's posture and graceful hand gestures that he has launched into full-blown _negotiation_ mode. Idly I pick up his cup and slosh the contents. Only half-empty. Well, if my fellow Jedi wants to drive some private bargain with a disreputable charlatan, far be it from me to interfere. I have to admit: in some small way, it's good to see Jinn's legacy carried on with such devotion. I just hope young Kenobi has the sense to keep it legal.

The din beneath the low rafters swells as a troupe of costumed dancers enters, stage right. The Feorians apparently intend a pageant of sorts – the tale of the _jabuur-weki's _ undoing, fancifully rendered.

The Director looks upon the primitive festivities with a bored condescension. He leans in close again. "Ah, might I ask you, Master Windu… before you arrived, there was some hint on the part of the younger generation here that some valuable resource might be, ah, contained within the Reservation boundaries. I wonder- have you discovered any evidence of such a claim?"

I keep my gaze trained on the graceless but mesmerizing rhythms of the Feorian tribal dance. "It is not always wise to give credence to the promises of the discontent minority," I tell him. "You would not wish to appear a fool among your colleagues."

"Oh, no, certainly not," he stammers. "Yes, yes, I see. Thank you, thank you indeed."

"My pleasure."

And now a monster of twisted fiber and rough-spun cloth emerges, a puppet given life by two or three cavorting Feorians. It roars, and the audience cheers. Somewhere under a table. a child screams in terror.

"Sit down, Skywalker," I say again.

"I can't see over anybody's head!" he has the gall to complain.

I've heard _that_ before. I was Yoda's Padawan, many years ago… but I'll not be hoisting Skywalker onto my own shoulders to afford him a better view. "Very well. You may find a more favorable vantage point."

He scuttles away, almost forgetting to bow. I scowl. Protocol, protocol – if you can't remember a simple thing like courtesy, how can you remember vital instructions or key intelligence on a mission? I sigh and shake my head. Thankfully, this is Kenobi's problem now.

Of course the boy wants to see the theatrics; he doubtless supposes himself to be the hero of the day. If only it were so simple. I will commend his actions in Council, of course. Bravery and intelligence should not go unremarked, and his destruction of the cave was a merciful ending to a rare confrontation. But it would be a dereliction of duty, an abandonment of hard-earned wisdom, to suppose that with the monster's demise we have somehow vanquished injustice and suffering, even here among the Feorians.

For the Dark is on the prowl, seeking a foothold, leverage with which to tip the galaxy into everlasting night. I can feel it, drawing nigh. And while we have here obliterated one vergence, there is surely another and greater waiting elsewhere, in the future. One beyond the scope of imagination.

This was but a foretaste, a parable tale, much like the fairy-legend that the Feorians even now spin and chant, weaving fact into memory, reality into myth until they are indistinguishable, a textured embroidery of history and warning. I watch the play unfold, hear the stamp of feet and the pounding of drums, the humming chant of the old language, and I release my questions into the Force.

When the time comes, I will not be caught off guard, for I have heard well the warning here issued: Beware. _Beware._


	49. Chapter 49

**Inheritance**

* * *

49.

We're finally gonna leave.

I'm kinda bored right now, actually, 'cause I was ready to go in like two minutes or something but the grown-ups keep having to make _arrangements, _which means talking a whole hoocha lot about nothing important and standing around while you do it.

Master Obi-Wan disappeared this morning early, with like a whole bunch of the Feorian women, mostly the old ones that made the blanket for Master Qui-Gon, and RuRu and some of the other nice ones, too. There were some younger ones tailing 'em, but I thought maybe they were just interested in Master 'cause he's a Jedi and all, and anyway the old ladies like shooed them off after a while.

They all went with baskets out onto the plains, in the direction of the 'sploded cave, like they were gonna gather firewood or something, and they came back later but I never saw whether they found much. There weren't too many good plants over that way, anyhow, and Master shoulda known better.

I didn't go 'cause I never want to go around that place again. I've been to Gola now, too, so I can cross it off my list of all the star systems in the galaxy, and I don't; think I'll ever need to go here again. I'd like to maybe go back to Naboo someday, that would be nice. And I hate Tatooine and all, but I have to go back there to free Mom someday.

And I've been thinking about that, too. Master Qui-Gon freed all these guys here, but they've still got problems. You know why? It's just like what Mom said, that the biggest problem in this galaxy is that people don't help each other. And so after they were freed, nobody wanted to help the Feorians very much. Otherwise why would they end up here? And if you kinda think about it, they don't even help each other so good. Yonso does a lot of yelling and being mad, and the chief just criticizes him and never listens. Nobody's gonna get anywhere fast like that.

So that's why the galaxy needs Jedi, I guess, 'cept we didn't really do too much here either. Well, we slayed the _jabuur-weki, _or at least I did. That was good, but it didn't fix the problems, really. I mean they're still poor and stuck and all.

Master Obi-Wan said that I'm looking at a tilled field and seeing only a mess or something, like there's seeds here and all but they haven't sprouted yet. I don't get all that kind of farming talk. Nobody grows anything like that where I come from and besides I don't want to _wait_ for stupid stuff to grow, I want to fix things that are broken and so far we haven't fixed too much.

I guess I'll go back into the guest house and wait some more, cause there sure are a lotta arrangements to be made. And guess what? Master's here. Finally. 'Cept…

"Hey! What are you doing, master?" He's got Qui-Gon's blanket, and he's like _doing_ something to it. With a _needle. _"Hey! I didn't know you could sew!"

"Blast it," he says, and then he sucks on his finger. "Yes, well, apparently I _can't," _he grumbles all grouchy and low. But he's not really mad. I can tell.

I get a good look at the blanket and whoa. He's _sticking_ pieces of crystal into it, like they're part of the pattern. Bits of … "Ithyll?" I ask. It sure looks the same.

Now his eyes sort of twinkle like they do when he's making a joke, a flat-voice not funny one. But also kinda like they do in the dojo when he's about to chuck somebody into the wall or blitz them with a wizard saber move. And I get this chill all up my back 'cause I think Master Obi-Wan is up to something, like something kinda _naughty._

He holds out the blanket and it's prettier than ever. Some parts of it glitter like jewels now, where the crystal is caught in the fibers.

"Rugged," I tell him. "It's even better than before. Master Qui-Gon would like it a lot," I add. He really cares what Master Qui-Gon would think. I can tell.

"Yes. Yes, he would." Master smiles.

A real smile, super big and all, like he _never_ does.

It must be something _chuba-booki, _big-time naughty. Master Windu's gonna kill him.

Now he hides the smile again, smooshing it down inside him with the stuff he forgets on purpose and his nightmares he won't talk about, and the stories about him and Master Qui-Gon and all. But it kinda leaks into his eyes and he's shining again, in the Force I mean, so I follow him out the door when he leaves.

"Where are we going? What are you gonna do with the blanket? I thought we were gonna give it to the Archives or something?"

We're actually headed into the women's longhouse. I hope they let us inside, 'cause I'm a boy and all, but I guess if they're okay with Master then I can get in, too. "What good would this beautiful masterpiece do the Archives? Did you know, Padawan, that a handcrafted artifact such as this is worth a fortune to someone with the right connections?"

He's not making any sense. "You're not gonna sell it!" I shout.

But he just goes into the hut with all the women.

And whoa! They're like making a whole _hoocha_ lot of blankets, and they've got baskets and baskets of ithyll crystal, little pieces and bits of it like broken transparisteel after a speeder crash. And I think I know what they were collecting this morning, out on the plains. All the blasted out ithyll from that cave 'splosion.

I tug on Master's sleeve. "Master! I thought the Feorians aren't allowed to own any of the stuff in the ground. You said Yonso couldn't keep the ithyll anyway, it belongs to the Presidency."

He's still smiling, that really small one that's mostly in his eyes. "But they are allowed to use scavenged natural items for the creation of handicrafts. Galactic Trade Labor Regulations. If the customers who purchase these blankets for outrageous sums intend to separate the ithyll for other purposes after the fact, that is none of my concern."

Oh. I wonder if Padawans can be like busted for what their master does?

There's that other guy that's always hanging around, the one that chews bacci a lot. He's kinda waiting for Master to notice him.

Obi-Wan goes over to him and gives him Master Qui-Gon's blanket and says something all serious, with his voice all flat. That creepy guy shrugs and looks sorta happy and scared at the same time. I can't believe he's got the blanket, though. He should keep his filthy bacci-hands off it. It's Master Qui-Gon's.

He slinks off with it in his hands, like a nasty Hutt with stolen treasure. "What's he doing?" I kinda squeak.

"He's establishing a market base for us. For a share of profits, of course," Master says.

I don't know how I feel about that. It's kinda like making a deal with a Hutt, and it's kinda like cheating at a game with chance cubes, and it's kinda like flying super reckless in a podracer cause you're the only human who can do it. "Isn't that sorta… sneaky?" I ask. "And that blanket was a present! You didn't have to give it away like that! You coulda kept it."

He looks off into nowhere like he does sometimes, and he's all quiet for a while. "It was _Qui-Gon's _ blanket," he says, after a long time. "They wanted me to give it to him…and so I have, from a certain point of view."

He looks all happy, like he's solved some kinda real _hoocha _ hard puzzle, but my head hurts thinking about it. Sometimes Master Obi-Wan makes no sense. It's too bad about the blanket, but he is kinda right about Master Qui-Gon and all, so I figure it's okay in the end.

And the Feorians are gonna have _a chubassi_ big load of money, too. That part's good.

So that's kinda like helping, for real. Like Jedi are s'posed to do. I smile up at Master and he sorta looks down at me the same way and guess what?

We are definitely friends. Even if I don't understand him all the time.


	50. Chapter 50

**Inheritance**

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50.

Flying is, perhaps, not my favorite way of occupying spare time.

Well. Not that _favorite_ is a salutary concept. It panders to the self, in its very definition, and that is one of the long shadows of greed. And spare time, for that matter, is not an idea with which I am well acquainted in practice. But I have always found hyperspace to be…unsettling. Anakin snores merrily away in the ship's bunk above me, one foot dangling temptingly over the cot's edge. My Padawan is at perfectly ease traveling at incalculable speeds through a nothingness emptier than mere void. He suffers no existential vertigo on this account.

I roll over, and – _blast_ it. Ship's bunks are always so dreadfully uncomfortable, too. I wonder if there is some manufacturer's standard that the things must fail in order to be deemed wretched enough for inclusion in the sleeping cabins of a passenger freighter? It must be so; nothing else but calculated sentient malice could explain the excruciating knots and lumps beneath my back.

My mind drifts, idle as the nauseating swirls of the hyperspace tunnel outside. Thankfully this small cabin has no viewport. There are limits to human endurance.

"Master?" the boy said as we boarded, many hours ago. "Lorra and those guys didn't say goodbye to me or anything. They called me 'lord Jedi' and stuff and they didn't act like we were friends anymore. Like I was really different from them even though we're the same pretty much."

"You are a Jedi now, Anakin…. You will grow accustomed to the distance many people place between us and themselves. It might be that of respect, or contempt, but it will always be there."

It was not the most comforting answer. It was merely the truth.

He looked downtrodden, shuffling up the ramp ahead of me, small satchel slung over one shoulder. "Mom always said we should treat everybody the same, no matter whether they were free or slaves. Or even Jedi," he adds.

"Your mother was- is – a wise woman," I responded. I knew someone else, once, who preached much the same thing… and he too was wise.

"So… are they gonna have fancy desserts on the menu?" he asked, changing topic with the abruptness of splintered summer lightning. Anakin, Anakin. Always on the move.

I believe I said that it was of no consequence either way, since he would not be indulging is such frivolous gluttony. But somehow, by the time the cabin's illumination was dimmed for the night cycle, his tabards sported a most unbecoming smudge of dark caramel syrup and muja-berry sauce. Even now, I can't say where the negotiations went awry. And I suppose it does not matter, for this _leave of absence_ is nearly done. We return to the Temple tomorrow, and to the serene rhythm of duty and training.

I shift about, vainly attempting to ameliorate the torturous discomfort of the thin mattress.

"Are you _brooding,_ son?" Master Windu's baritone fills the cramped space with rumbling amusement, stern compassion.

Ha. I know better than to answer that inquiry in the affirmative. "Merely thinking."

"Dangerous avocation," he grunts.

Yes, well. "Will you report to the Council about the _jabuur-weki, _ master?"

There is a significant pause. "No," he decides. "It wasn't an official mission. I'll tell Yoda, of course. And make an Archives entry. But I think it was an encounter ordained by the Force, a personal trial – for all of us. We must learn from it."

"Yes, master." My own assimilation of wisdom from the experience might be slow and laborious. Thus far, I have only got as far as a single blazing resolution: never to let Anakin Skywalker out of my sight again. And that stirs up unpleasant feelings. My failure in that regard has been remarked upon again and again by the Council. Indeed, by Master Windu himself . If –

"I've come to a determination," he cuts across my thoughts, in his uniquely blunt manner. "Your Padawan's habit of disappearing is something you will have to manage on your own. The Council can't waste any more time and energy hauling the pair of you in for reprimand every two weeks. Do I make myself understood?"

I am glad the dark conceals my budding smile. I do understand - every word which he has not spoken.. "Yes," I respond demurely. "Thank you , master."

He snorts. "Good," he says.

I exhale deeply. Perhaps I have not done so, not truly, since the day I bound Anakin's learner's braid the first time.

"He will bring you wisdom," Mace Windu adds, cryptically.

If wisdom feels like a migraine headache, then yes. He will indeed.

"Obi-Wan," he says, just as I feel I might drift into slumber at long last. "Tell me honestly. Do I want to know what arrangements you made with that scurrilous little opportunist on the Reservation?"

"Ah." And here I thought we were friends. Another lesson learned, Kenobi – do not rest on your laurels. Ever. " Honestly? I don't think so, master."

He chuckles softly, the Force warming the chill recycled air with his mirth. "I didn't think so, either. You really are a worthy student of that old barve."

That old..? Does he mean _Qui-Gon?_ I – I- How dare he…and besides, "I beg to differ, with all due respect, master."

"Relax," Master Windu advises me. "I grew up with Qui-Gon Jinn. I knew him quite well. And I can assure you, he would be very proud. He said as much to me, once, years ago. He considered you the greatest gift the Force had ever bestowed upon him."

Oh. I… there is no answer to be made. There are gifts, and there are gifts. The Feorian women poured their hearts into the weaving they made for Qui-Gon, out of gratitude. I have on my person still one or two trifling souvenirs – a knife, a stone, an aching plenitude of memories – which I treasure, against all precepts, out of far more than gratitude. There are people and places all over the galaxy that still bear the blessed mark, and occasionally the scars, of this man who bestowed gifts without thought of future or self. But I alone have stood outside the economy of this exchange, he who possesses nothing to _give, _nothing to _bestow,_ nothing to sacrifice except his own life.

Perhaps that was enough, in the end.

I clench my jaw tight, blinking. Master Windu says no more, and I sense that he has discreetly withdrawn his attention. I tighten my shields a notch further and nudge Anakin's foot with the Force, back into place beneath his pile of thermal blankets.

There are gifts and there are gifts, And it occurs to me that Qui-Gon understood better than I did what vital exchange of gratitude and devotion the long years might witness. And he did not leave this life without bequeathing his own last gift, one equal in measure to that rendered unto him. With his dying breath he gave me my inheritance.

I see that now, though the snores issuing from above me dull its bright epiphanic truth into a more tolerable irony.

"Wizard," the boy mumbles groggily before slipping back into his – doubtlessly high-velocity, questionably civilized – dream world.

And I close my eyes, content.

Despite the fact that we are flying.

**FINIS**

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_With profound gratitude to the redoubtable Valairy Scot, whose keen editorial eye was an invaluable aid, somehting one should keep at one's side like a lightsaber. The good bits are better due to her efforts; and the bad bits… well, the author takes full responsibility._


End file.
